


Hufflepuppy's Tales of Azeroth, Volume 2: Journeys

by Huffle_puppy



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2019-10-13 05:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 66,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17481998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huffle_puppy/pseuds/Huffle_puppy
Summary: In the wake of volume 1's conclusion, Kaskaeld tries to fulfill Rhea's wish, complicated greatly by his reputation. With one of Stormwind's best rogues guarding him, there's little to pass the time in Northrend save tell the long, painful story of his--and many other defenders--lives before and during the fall of Gilneas.





	1. The wanderer in Stormwind

**Author's Note:**

> This volume contains material that may disturb some, including acts of violence, acts of sexual aggression, and child abuse. I do not condone these, nor am I writing about them to titillate or in any other way promote them: they are in this story solely because the characters, in trusting me with knowing their lives, expressed their pain bluntly, and I feel I would be doing a disservice to them to lessen it. If you or a loved one have a history of trauma, please reach out if you haven't to someone who can assist in mental health, whether that's a trustworthy friend or a professional. I completely understand if you want to read only the summaries, in which I will do my best to condense the main pieces of the plot, or simply skip this volume entirely. You are worth hearing. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy my work.

Stormwind City was a sprawling jewel of the Alliance, its mass of humanity hidden behind strong mountains and stronger walls. The guards held fast at the gate and throughout the surrounding Elwynn forest, their grey and blue armor polished and shining in the sun like the cobblestone tiles and shimmering water of the city they belonged to.

They paid little mind to the wanderer as he trudged along the road to the city. Their halberds were strong steel, and their blades could be swift and deadly. Even if one of their rank fell to an attacker--to this unknown wanderer man--the rest of them would descend upon him.

He had a large cloak drawn about him, soaked with the light misty rain that had been coming down throughout the morning and afternoon. The forest provided little cover and the clouds above, though they hadn’t destroyed the brilliance of the sunlight, had still drenched any person who had stayed under them for hours. The wanderer had been coming for a long, long while.

The rest of the clothing on the unknown man seemed plain enough. The hems of his pants were soaked and the shoes were destroyed with use. The guards remained resolutely still as he passed by them through the large gates of Stormwind, though the question murmured through their mind who he was. They made a point of knowing all who entered and lived in their city, yet this interesting wanderer, as human as any of the populace of Stormwind, had not been before seen.

The one remarkable thing about the man was that there was a sling around his head and arm, holding something to his breast. Most likely a child. The guards made no mind of him.

The bridge over to Stormwind was made of strong grey stone, slick now with the water of the sky. The wanderer trudged wearily past the statues of heroes long-gone to time and mystery, the misty air condensing in his fiery red beard. He paused as he got to the end of the bridge, moving aside to let a commanding officer through. The man’s horse trotted by, and the officer glanced down with passing interest at the cloaked wanderer before moving on to the affairs of his guards.

The wanderer rounded the pass towards Stormwind’s second gate, moving through the stone arch easily and out into the trade district.

The scent of warm bread assaulted his nose, and the clamor of a populace not stifled by rainwater drowned out the residing silence of the forest. The wide street gave way to houses on both sides, and open doors led in to numerous parties going about their business. From one of the houses, an older woman glanced out at the new arrival to the city and waved her pretty little arm vigorously.

“Hello there, sir! Do you need a place to rest yourself?”

The other fellows in her establishment glanced out as well, murmuring about the newcomer and his appearance. He cut through the wet air and outlined the figure of a man who liked the quiet he kept himself with. Somehow unapproachable, without giving you any reason to judge him thus.

The woman however, determined to make an acquaintance with him and his coin-purse, continued her belligerently pleasant attentions.

The wanderer came closer to her door. She smiled quite politely, keeping her gaze on him as she batted away the men behind her. They shuffled back to their seats, curiosity remaining unsatisfied.

The woman bowed as he came to stop in her doorway. He bowed his head in kind, and she saw by the many scars on his face and the weary glint in his eyes that there’d be no need to exaggerate herself. She took a small breath and assumed a more sincerely motherly tone.

“Do you need a place to stay, sir? Or a good, cheap meal?”

The wanderer shook his head slightly. The scent of fresh food was thicker in her building; her husband was quite the cook, after all. If that didn’t bring this newcomer in, he had no stomach whatsoever.

The bundle he held close to his breast shifted, and some small being stirred in the sling. The woman thought for a moment she heard a curious coo, as of a newborn kitten, or maybe a bird--then the wanderer put a hand gently to the covered babe and soothed it back to sleep.

“Any supplies then, sir, which might help you and your wee friend?”

The wanderer glanced back up from the covered body to her. She remained with the pleasantest of airs, though she saw in his eyes more and more the marks of distrust. The paranoia of a man who has done something pushing the boundaries of the law and without any friend to rely upon.

The woman cleared her throat and continued to smile. In dealing with people like this, being calm and warmly open was best.

“Is there anything at all that I can get you, sir?”

“Directions,” he said, voice soft under the slow drizzle of the rain. It had a deep, rich quality to it that could’ve easily lulled her into listening for hours, had his eyes not been so tiredly anxious.

“Certainly sir; to where?”

“Stormwind Keep, ma’am.”

The woman blinked. This mystery man was a bundle of interest indeed. He looked, however, as though he had no intention of satiating her curiosity. Nor, for that matter, the curiosities of the men in her establishment, who were talking of unimportant drivel as they listened attentively to the conversation happening at the doorway.

“The Keep, sir, is on the northeast edge of the city. The easiest way to get there is to turn right at the end of this street and head out to the edge of canals. Cross the bridge over to Old Town and--well, sir, I’d recommend traveling just along the edge of that part of town. The people there are very pleasant, but there’s some who might tend to take an interest in your affairs, if you’re not from here.”

The wanderer nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

He stepped back from her doorway and started on down the road. For anyone else, she might’ve pressed the issue of a bit of coin for her time and help, but she held her request back, watching him go. There was an edge of resignation in his movements; the motions of necessity covering sorrow. She wished him well under her breath and turned back to her crowd.

The wanderer made his way through the city based on her directions. The clouded sky above continued to assault the buildings with water, and yet the wanderer seemed not to mind, or at least care, staying as close to the middle of the road as was manageable.

He came to the archway leading out of the trade district’s center and continued on. The houses fell away to allow the canal to wind through, and a solitary bridge of the same grey stones passed over the rushing water. The wanderer took it, coming into Old Town.

Another archway presented itself, and he could see through it narrower roads and tighter buildings, older and cramped, their brown roofs stooped low with age. A few men chatting under one such roof paused long enough to see the wanderer’s gaze, but the fiery-haired traveler took the woman’s advice, sticking left along the outside edge of Old Town by the canal.

The cobbled road curved to the right, leading northeast, and the wanderer turned the corner to come face to face with his destination. Further down, the road ended at the gate of the Keep: another huge stone archway leading to a secluded palace on a hill. The wanderer moved on forward to it.

The guards at either side of the gate took no more notice of him than any usual passerby. Many people came to the Keep, either for the historical documents, or to speak an appeal of something or other to the lawmakers, or simply to marvel at it. After passing through the gate, the first major sight was the fountain, in the middle of which stood a towering statue of the king, Varian Wrynn.

The wanderer did look at the statue, which was impressive both in its stature and its similarity to the man whose face it owned. The wanderer studied his grey features, and, as King Wrynn’s face was turned down to look upon anyone entering the Keep, the rain rolling down his face seemed to imitate tears.

The wanderer made his way steadily up the stairs to the side of the visage of King Wrynn. There was a set on either side of the statue, both leading to the terrace above, and move stairs that led to the Keep’s proper entrance. The very wet and very tired man finally reached the first destination.

He made his way inside, trying carefully to shake out his cloak without waking the slumbering infant in the sling. The garment, far too drenched, seemed content to drip down haphazardly over the blue rug that rolled downhill from the throne itself. The wanderer made his way up the rug, passing open doors and well-lit rooms of scholars and the endless rows of infantry, gazing steadily on the newcomer, weapons calmly ready to defend their king.

He finished his ascension, coming to the throne room itself.

The room sprawled out before him, showing a delightful balance of extravagance and simplicity. To the left, beautiful gardens awaited outside; to the right, another room for plans and books--and in front, King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind sat on his throne, speaking in quiet tones to King Genn Greymane of Gilneas. Both kings were human; both had fair skin; both were well-built men with the scars of battle. King Wrynn, however, with his longer brown hair and blue and grey armor, displayed the charisma of youth behind a vicious scar along his face horizontally; King Greymane lived up to his name, with a goatee and cropped hair aged by snow, a large dark coat poshly draped around his form.

Standing impatiently next to them, a young lad with golden hair shifted anxiously from foot to foot. King Greymane looked at the boy, and King Wrynn laughed and ruffled his son’s hair.

They all paused, seeing the wanderer, who had stopped in the middle of the circular room and now rummaged through his bags.

King Greymane drew in a choked breath, eyes widening. King Wrynn inhaled sharply.

“GUARDS!”

The elder king barked the order, and the infantry sprung to the ready, settling into fighting stances and directing their spears at the wanderer. The rain-soaked man paid them no mind, fishing out a rolled-up bit of parchment from his bag, sealed by wax, pausing and gently petting the bundle against his chest as it whimpered and squirmed.

King Wrynn rose, sheltering young Anduin behind him, moving to the wanderer with his hand on his sword’s hilt and stopping at inner circle of guards around the man.

“Genn’s told me about you,” Varian said, calm but austere. “Stories that I wouldn’t believe, save from a man who doesn’t lie. Stories that chill me bitterly about the strength of your character, Kaskaeld Remor.”

Kas brushed the sling absentmindedly, holding out the sealed parchment with his other hand, eyes dull. King Wrynn made no attempt to take it.

“Genn also told me that the last he saw of you was on the harbor, shadowed by the Horde’s forces and Sylvanas Windrunner. Which makes me wonder why they might’ve saved you, unless you’re working with them.”

Kas made no reply, continuing to look down at the bundle as it settled again in place, arm completely still as it held out the parchment.

King Wrynn narrowed his eyes, then nodded to one guard to grab the paper. The guard did, snatching it and moving back, another taking his place to keep Kas surrounded by blades.

“Show me the seal,” Varian said quieter, cautious of the paper--a frown of confusion fluttering along his brow as he looked at the symbol in the wax. He glanced up at Kas again.

“How’d you learn that coat of arms?”

“Through his usual trickery, I’m sure,” Genn growled from the throne platform, having taken Varian’s place in front of Anduin.

Kas again made no reply, continuing to gently pet the bundle.

King Wrynn looked at the paper again then took it, holding it further away, breaking the seal and slowly unraveling it. The words of a letter came to the eyes of the nearby guards, but the human king brought the paper closer, frowning, reading it.

Everyone remained quiet for what felt like a long, long time.

King Wrynn blinked, reading through it again quicker. King Greymane growled.

“Whatever it says, my King, I can all but guarantee is a fabrication--he’s a criminal and he’s dangerous!” Genn spat, watching the rogue that had for so long plagued his nation.

Kas said nothing.

King Wrynn slowly rolled up the letter, tucking it in a pocket in his cloak and looking at Kas again steadily. The rogue looked truly worn thin, his eyes threatening to sink into his skull and outlined by the darkness of little rest. The king looked over the bundle cautiously.

“Do you know the contents of this letter, Mr. Remor?”

Kas shook his head slightly.

King Wrynn remained quiet another long moment, then took a breath. “They’re a commendation,” he said finally, “for your actions in the Badlands. An explanation of the situation between you and your employer and its resulting end, as well as the request to give you safe passage to her superior to drop off that little treasure there. Your employer specifically asks that you go to see her superior; not that the superior comes and visits, to ensure, I imagine, your continued safety. Setting a portal to get you there would be impossible at the time, as they’re having trouble with the cataclysm’s fallout, but I may charter a ship to get the treasure there.”

Kas nodded softly. King Wrynn’s hand remained steadily on his sword.

“As I have reason to send my people out that way, I can easily arrange for one of them to take the treasure off your hands.”

Kas looked up at the king, his eyes in an instant going from dull to hard with silent fury. King Wrynn took a slow breath, then nodded his head ever so lightly.

The closest guard stepped in quickly, grabbing the edge of the sling and yanking it to take it off--

A dagger appeared under the guard’s throat, thin jagged blade pressed tight to the flesh. The guard yelped and stopped and Kas’s brow narrowed with unbridled hatred. One of the rogue's hands held the dagger aloft as the other firmly removed the guard’s fingers from the sling. King Greymane growled--

The sling’s occupant wailed and poked his head out.

The guards took a collective breath in, and Anduin darted out from behind Genn, standing on his tiptoes to see--

Kas’s sling held a Red Dragon whelpling.

Xairestraszas whimpered at the sudden jolt in his home and stretched out one tiny, cramped wing, squirming and squawking and squalling for food. Kas held everything taut, gaze on Varian, blade against the guard’s throat just barely without any blood, other hand moving to the pack and getting out a skin, popping off the tip’s covering. The whelpling complained, fussy and flailing, but finally relented with an agonized whimper to the same milk it had had for some while, guzzling down greedily the last drops from the skin and tucking itself back in the sling with huffs and burps.

King Wrynn watched the small being, then Kas again.

“I’ll admit that you are faster than I had thought. Thank you for not killing my guard; sheathe your weapon, now.”

Kas made no move, staring him down.

King Wrynn raised a brow. “You’re in no position to care for that whelpling, Kaskaeld. We have mages who are experts on the subject; I will gladly assign the proper people to keep it safe and take it to Queen Alexstrasza.”

The rogue didn’t blink, eyes piercing under his dark brow.

King Wrynn’s eyes narrowed. “We could very easily just take him from you.”

“No,” Kas said, voice deadly soft. “You couldn’t. Not without losing a good few guards and your son’s peace-of-mind.”

Kas jerked his head towards the golden-haired boy, who watched the squirming bundle with huge, awe-struck eyes. King Wrynn squared his jaw, then let out a breath.

“Captain. Escort Mr. Remor to the stockade and alert Maginor Dumas to the presence of a Red. Give him access to Mr. Remor’s cell, and ask him to please compile food for a growing whelpling, as well as any information he has to properly train this rogue into being a father. On the way back, get me Sam Crow.”

The guard captain, with armor slightly more elaborate than his peers, nodded and relaxed his stance. His guards followed suit, all watching Kas warily. The rogue finally let up, sheathing the dagger again, then bowed his head slightly.

“Wonderful to meet you, by the way, King Wrynn.”

Kas glanced up past him at King Greymane, eyes cold as a blizzard, softening looking at Anduin’s young face. The guard captain prompted him back down the ramp, and Kas turned, moving out of the keep with young Xairestraszas, escorted by a small army.


	2. The Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kas gets unexpected guests in his cell...

The room Kas and Xairestraszas had been placed in was uncomfortable and grim. The walls were large, rough stones with moss scattered haphazardly about and little rivulets pooling down from the rain. The only furniture was a flattened cot--a torn bit of cloth over old hay. Kas paid it little mind, resting his weary self and collecting the rainwater from a small, barred window, giving it to the grumbling whelpling to drink.

Around the time the clouded sky got darker with sunset, a well-dressed man in blue robes emboldened by golden swaths came in. He was older than Kas, though similarly fair-skinned, a crown of steel over his receding hair. The many guards outside Kas’s cell opened the bars to him, and he muttered under his breath about the ridiculousness of this in relation to a whelpling’s well-being as he entered.

Maginor Dumas set down a sack in the middle of the floor, looking around and clearing his throat.

“Well,” the elder man said, “what a fine place this is, eh?”

Kas looked up at him without any emotion--but Xairestraszas, smelling the contents of the sack, squawked loud and flapped his tiny wings to get to the goodies inside. Kas held him in place in the sling, watching the mage with sunken, distrusting eyes.

Maginor Dumas opened the sack, unwrapping well-cooked meat, holding it out to them.

Kas made no movement, though the whelpling’s wailing increased.

“You’re not in a position to refuse,” the mage said, watching him with a similarly steady gaze. “Whether or not you trust me, I’m all you have right now. So eat. And stop starving that poor child.”

Kas’s eyes narrowed but he looked away, down at the gift, his stomach rumbling. He moved to the meal cautiously and took it, nodding his thanks, sitting down against one wall to eat and holding the other bit of meat for Xairestraszas to devour. The mage produced three drinks, setting down two in front of Kas and seating himself in front of the rogue with the third.

They ate in silence, the older mage not seeming to mind the wait.

When the rogue and the whelpling had finished, the mage cleared his throat, producing from his sack a rather large stuffed cow. Xairestraszas blinked at it, poking his long neck out from the sling. Maginor Dumas grinned, flailing the beast closer and closer to the dragon, coaxing it out from the sling.

Kas put a hand up to stop the whelpling.

The mage looked up to the rogue, sighing. “My dear man, you’re probably quite capable without unsheathing your blades, and there’s probably very little I could do, should you want to kill me here and now. I appreciate that you have this babe’s best interests at heart; so do I, so let him stretch his wings or he’ll have quite a bit of difficulty doing so later in life.”

Maginor Dumas went back to coaxing Xairestraszas, and Kas slowly relented. The whelpling squirmed, fumbling its way out from the sling, pawing awkwardly for somewhere to cling to. Kas put a hand close, and the tiny quadruped moved itself onto his hand unsteadily, squawking and nuzzling it. In very little time, Kas had let it down to the ground where to tore away playfully at the stuffed cow.

The day lapsed away with the mage instructing Kas in as much as he could regarding caring for a whelpling day to day. He’d brought containers of sustenance along, describing the proportions and how to balance the diet. He brought various toys, described various methods of keeping the whelpling active without letting it stray too far, even brought a prototypical harness and leash for it to fly while still being in-reach.

Finally, however, the mage left, leaving the sack behind. The sun had gone down, and the cell was lit by a solitary torch, hanging on the wall opposite the bars. Xairestraszas trotted about the floor, carrying the smiling cow in his mouth, shaking it every so often for good measure. Kas watched it, trying a few times to tug the cow away just so that the small whelpling could pull back and go dashing away again excitedly, wings flapping haphazardly.

A few hours after the guards brought supper, the whelpling curled up against the mat of straw and settled to sleep, drooling over the cow. Kas watched him, finally standing and wincing, stretching his aching limbs and going over to the bed, draping his large cloak down over the tiny red form.

As he stood again, his ear twitched and he tensed, glancing half over his shoulder. The guards were gone. The torch flickered quietly. The cell was still locked.

But someone else was here.

Kas turned himself around completely, blocking the sleeping form. A low, warning growl escaped his throat.

Leaning against the wall, smirking and watching him, was a woman dressed in dark leathers. Daggers adorned her hips, and Kas knew more were hidden away on her person. Black hair flowed straight and ended at her shoulders, and dark skin hid her sharp eyes in the dim light. Her smirk grew, and she kicked herself off the wall, moving towards him and looking him over.

Neither one spoke. She stopped in front of him, gaze lingering at the weapons at his belt and moving back up to his eyes. Her face burst into a cheerful, dangerously cordial grin.

“And here I thought I’d be stuck with some bastard criminal as slimy as anyone else in the Stockade,” she murmured, voice masked with soft tenderness that only made him tenser. “Hello there, Fuzzy.”

She ran a hand under his chin, fingers drifting through his now-unkempt beard. She chuckled softly to herself, smoothing the mess of fire down as much as she could. He raised a brow.

“Oh, c’mon; this’ll be very boring if we don’t get comfortable, Kas,” she said, hand dropping back to her side. She glanced around him at the sleeping dragon and a glimmer of intrigue ran through her eyes. Kas’s hand twitched closer towards his hip, to the daggers--

She looked back up at him, and he felt something press against his arm. Her own blade, cold and viciously thin, unsheathed faster than he could see. She blinked once, twice, then smiled softly.

“Down, Fuzzy. I’m not here to hurt you or your precious baby boy. Relax.”

He didn’t. She raised a brow politely.

“I said ‘relax.’”

“I might if I knew why you’re here,” Kas said quietly.

She scanned his hard gaze and sighed to herself, pulling her blade back but keeping it in-hand. “Fair enough,” she mused. “I’m here to escort you to Alexstrasza in Northrend. Wyrmrest Temple, which is very close to the one place on Azeroth I’d really like to avoid--but my handsome king gave me an order and I’m only too happy to do whatever he says.”

The female rogue smirked to herself, watching Kas cautiously. “That good enough, Fuzzy?”

“No,” Kas said coldly. “You could be here to kill me and abduct the boy.”

“If I were,” she replied nonchalantly, “why in the fuck wouldn’t I have just done it when you didn’t know I was here?”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head up to look at him straight on. Kas made no reply.

“Exactly,” she said, breaking the silence. “Don’t be a dumbass; you’re better than that, at least according to Genn ‘Frothing-at-the-Mouth-Over-You’ Greymane. _He_ would’ve sent me to kill you. Varian at least recognizes Miss Rheastrasza’s last wish and the fact that she probably wrote a letter to Alexstrasza along the lines of ‘here’s my Fuzzy lover, if he’s dead go after Stormwind.’ So here I am to keep your precious ass safe, copy?”

Kas thought in silence, then looked down slightly. The woman sighed, voice dry.

“Gods, you’re going to be good company.”

She moved closer to him again to look at the sleeping dragon--Kas tensed again hard. She rolled her eyes up at him, sheathing her dagger, and patted a hand on his chest in a faux-soothing motion to push him aside. Kas stepped back, blinking, and the woman knelt down, looking at the sleeping red.

“I’ve never actually seen one in person,” she murmured. “A proper dragon. I’ve met them plenty of times, but just in their…”

She trailed off, motioning at her face. Their humanoid forms. She looked back up at Kas, standing and brushing off her armor.

“Okay--sleep. That’s an order. We’re heading out by ship a little before dawn so we don’t attract attention. So get some sleep, Fuzzy; you look like shit. And here I was, reading that the Remor family had some rather attractive faces.”

She moved to the barred door, humming and picking the lock easily, glancing back with bemusement.

“I can’t tell, by the way, if you’re staying here because you’re trying to inspire us into thinking you’re a good rogue, or you’re just a broken guy. You could’ve gotten out of here really, really easily; I mean, a child off the street could’ve. It’s pretty pathetic.” Her eyes lingered over his person once more. “I do hope you’re not broken; I really like fiery people.”

She went out, locking the door again, straightening and watching him expectantly.

Kas watched her with a dark gaze.

She grinned. “Oh come on--I can see it in there. You’ve still got it, Kaskaeld. All that sharpness. The rage; the nervousness; the fire to survive. Gods, there’s more in you than in most of SI:7 combined. So ask the question.”

Kas didn’t move, save his breathing.

The woman waited a long moment then sighed dramatically. “You really don’t want to interact with anybody, do you?” She nodded to herself. “So many scars; all of them cutting deep. I get that. And, I really can be nice company if you’d open your mouth.”

“I wonder,” he said finally, “if I’d feel more alone not talking at all, or talking too much and putting on the guise of someone brazen and courageous who never shows their scars.”

She blinked, then chuckled softly. “No one’s putting on a guise, Fuzzy.”

“Fine,” Kas said. “Since you seem adamant about it: who are you, then?”

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask,” she said, smiling and waving politely. “Samantha Crow, the Blade in the Shadows, one of Master Shaw’s best in SI:7 and, though I’ve never had enough ego to check for myself, potentially the assassin with the highest kill count in Stormwind and the Alliance. At your service until Wyrmrest, o ‘Ghost of Gilneas.’”

Sam grinned, her eyes lighting up devilishly. Kas took a breath and bowed his head, a polite recognition of introduction. When he looked back up, she was gone.


	3. Samantha Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aboard the boat to Northrend, Kas gets to know his new companion.

At dawn, the guards opened Kas’s cell, and the rogue collected Rheastrasza’s sleeping child into the sling again and left. Samantha Crow was waiting in the hallway, looking benign and sweet, accosting him as soon as he fell into step aside her.

“Sleep well?”

“No.”

“Well, you still look better. We’ll have to get you to a barber someday, or I can try my hand at tackling that scruffy mane.”

Kas made no reply, and she giggled, leading him with his entourage of guards outside. The city was not yet awake, and the sun couldn’t crest over the mountains to show its face to the sleeping buildings. The guards led him quietly through the cobbled streets down to the docks where a large ship, its bow made of tough iron, waited silently in port. The rogues got on the boat but the guards stepped away, staying on the wooden planks as the boat’s crew hustled, starting the behemoth up to coast away.

“They’re not coming?” Kas asked, watching the faceless suits of armor Stormwind filled with brave soldiers.

Samantha chuckled, leaning against the railing, her hair blowing in the ocean winds. “They wouldn’t be able to stop you if you wanted to get away.”

Kas glanced over at her. “And you could?”

She opened her eyes, lingering on him with a coy purring smirk. “Mhmm.”

Kas met that gaze then turned impassively back to the dock. It was disappearing as the boat drifted away, and the misty dawn soon vanished it completely from sight.

Samantha glanced around the deck, watching the silent crew bustle to and fro, then snuck her slender arms around Kas’s, tugging him along. The Gilnean turned, surprised and tense, and she rolled her eyes, dragging him below deck and through the lantern-lit spaces to a two-person cabin.

She shut the door, lighting the oil lamp in the room and humming mildly enough to herself. The room was barely large enough to accommodate the two beds it had crammed in, much less space for them to stand side-by-side without touching. The lady rogue paid the crampedness of their situation no mind, flopping down in one bed and crossing her legs, gesturing to the other.

Kas sat down, still cautious, and Samantha grunted, reaching behind her head and smashing the pillow’s ends repeatedly until it was as puffy as she desired. Resting her dark hair against it, she grinned up at him, and Kas for the first time in the light could see her features, delicate and thin, both lively and lovely.

He, meanwhile, sat like a statue, watching her then glancing away; no window in the room, the walls all hard wood. Nowhere to go. Nothing really to do. He adjusted the sack, full with items for Xairestraszas and the letters Rhea had written, so that it was out of the way of their narrow path to the door.

The whelpling whimpered waking, then stretching and squawked, poking its little head out of its cramped conditions and blinking at the new space. Samantha waved, and the whelpling squawked again. Kas helped it out of its sling and down to his bed, where it cooed and pranced and stretched its growing wings, testing the wonderful new materials and headbutting the fluffy pillow repeatedly. The rogue got out a small bit of meat with fresh goat’s milk, whistling lightly and getting the whelpling’s attention. He didn’t have to coax the babe--Xairestraszas dashed into Kas’s lap and devoured down breakfast greedily.

Samantha watched, bemused, her fingers interlaced along her belly. “‘The most frightening rogue in all of Lordaeron’ according to some who’ve clearly never met me, and he’s a dragon-daddy.”

Kas glanced her way as Xairestraszas guzzled down the portioned-out milk. The whelpling finished quickly, gulping and burping and thumping Kas’s belly with its head before trotting away to the pillow again.

Samantha watched him steadily. “D’you eat breakfast, Fuzzy?”

Kas shook his head.

“Mmkay--” She grunted and heaved herself up, standing close in the narrow hallway, her shins against his. One graceful hand brushed under his chin, tilting his head up, but she removed it, seeing the blush steal over his face accompanied by hardened eyes. “Not a fan of pampering, it seems. All right.”

She went to the doorway, opening it, whistling out into the hallway. The shrill sound echoed and a burly crewman came over. “Breakfast, if you would?” Samantha said, smiling sweetly up at him, and the crewman, only too happy to oblige the pretty lass, bowed and rushed off.

“I don’t--”

Kas’s voice startled her, though the only indication was the twitching of her ear back to where the sound came from. She shut the door, glancing around to the usually silent rogue. He wore an odd face now, pained but masking it with a grit jaw.

“I don’t mind,” he said, finding the words slowly, “pampering. I’d rather it come from somewhere legitimate. Not because it’s easy to; because I’m easy to-- make blush. And I--” He frowned, looking down. “With Rhea, it was-- she-- I understood about what I meant to her. I wasn’t just a friend on her mission. And I wasn’t just going to be hers until the mission was over; I’d be-- we’d’ve-- it would’ve been more.”

Samantha watched him a long time in silence, then took a breath, moving to the other bed and sitting cross-legged. He glanced up at her. She held his gaze, then nodded slightly, leaning back against the wall, a lot more serious than he’d seen her before.

“You want me to stop calling you ‘Fuzzy?’”

Kas shook his head. “I don’t mind that. Been called worse.”

Samantha snorted. “Everybody has, in our profession.” Her words drifted away to quiet, and finally she sat up again, closer to him.

“Shit--all right, look, Kas: I’m not interested in being your wife. I’m not interested in being anybody’s wife. I’m not looking for your meaningful crap; it literally doesn’t matter to me. I’ve had to fuck my way through plenty of missions on this job; it kind of doesn’t work if I have some husband I go home to and bake a meal for or whatever women ‘traditionally’ do. And I’ve had plenty of nights too where I take my pick of whoever I damn well please, get a great night’s exercise with them, and then never see them again; that is okay. Growing close to somebody, like you with Rhea, means they be used, and you can be used, and when it’s done, it hurts like a bitch.

“If you want me not to flirt with you, I won’t. If you want me not to have any contact with you, so that there’s no possible way your romantic notions bring me into the fold, okay. We will have a shitty, boring time together. But I’m not doing it for kicks, I’m not doing it to be a cruel bitch; I’m doing it because you’re handsome and I wouldn’t mind taking you to bed and just having an enjoyable time. Since we seem to have very different ideals, though, we won’t do that; that’s fine.”

She sat back again, and Kas nodded softly. She sighed.

“You have way, way too much shit to work out with yourself, Kas. You’re looking for a girl who’ll pour her tender heart out to you; find a young librarian back in Stormwind, seriously. They’re quite tender in bed and they’re very needy and clingy, which I’m not about to deal with, Fuzzy.”

“Wouldn’t ask you to.” Kas glanced up at her with a polite smile. “I’m not looking for anyone. Intimately or otherwise. I just want to get Rhea’s kid there.”

Samantha took a breath. “‘Kay.”

“I don’t mind if you want to pamper, I guess.”

She shrugged. “If it slips out, it slips out. Depends how drunk I am.”

The crewman knocked, and she got up again, getting their food and thanking the gruff, blushing seaman. She shut the door again, bemused. “Sweet, but not my type.”

Kas ate, and Samantha had a little herself. Xairestraszas, bored of the pillow, flopped into Kas’s lap and wriggled about until the rogue brought out the stuffed cow. The whelpling squeaked in delight, grabbing it in his mouth and chomping away.

Samantha chuckled, mid-bite. “What a beautiful little idiot.”

Kas shared her laugh, his own soft and warm. She smiled at him, finishing her meal and flopping back in bed.

“So,” she said after Kas was done as well, “not passing the time with adult fun; what shall we do? Or is there ultra-detailed ‘do this or little however-you-pronounce-his-name will wither and die?”

Kas glanced around at the whelpling, still teething on the cow. “Xairestraszas.” The dragon paused, blinked at him, then went back to the smiling plushie. “The only thing Dumas really impressed on me is needing to feed him right, let him stretch, and talk while he’s near. That way, he develops a sense of language early on. Topic doesn’t really matter though. And playing with him; hugs, cuddles--anything that’s good contact.” The rogue grabbed onto the cow, shaking it, making the dragon chomp down harder with a muffled, delighted growl.

“So let’s chat then,” Samantha said mildly. “Since you’re a lot more talkative, which is nice with that deep voice. What do you want to talk about?”

Kas shrugged.

Samantha sighed. “Uh huh. Great talk.”

Kas smiled sheepishly.

“Well--” she said, rolling over and lounging on her side, watching him, “tell me about Gilneas. I don’t know much about it.”

“That’s a long story.”

“It’s a long boat trip, dear Fuzzy.”

“It’s longer than a day. It’s a very, very long story.”

She sighed dramatically. “Then you’d better start now.”

Kas let go of the cow finally, and Xairestraszas jumped about with the cow in his mouth victoriously. “Or tell me about you. Since you know about me.”

Samantha narrowed her eyes, then smirked. “If I do, then you’ll tell me all about Gilneas afterwards.”

“Deal.”

“Okay then--” She rolled back onto her back, stared up at the ceiling, and began:

 

<Samantha Crow’s Story>

    My mother lived somewhere in Outland, and I never knew where because she never wrote. My father, a soldier in some armor or other for King and Country, died at the hands of demons and Mum kept my sister but left me. I went to live with her sister, Azebet, and my Uncle Karcin. Mind you, I was young when all this dumb shit was happening. Somewhere around four. I literally only know that Azebet and Karcin aren’t my real parents because they told me so, and they never had a reason to lie to me, especially about that.

    Anyway, I lived on their farm in the foothills of the Alterac mountains. Yeah, Fuzzy; that’s near your precious Gilneas; you’re not the terror from Lordaeron after all, eh? You’ve got me to contend with.

When I was seven, raiders broke in, killed the people I actually considered family, and snatched me along with them. First it was the fun usual games of “throw the rock nearest the kid’s head” and such, but their leader, a guy named Maron, had more brains to him than the rest, especially seeing me scale up a cliffside once trying to get away. Somehow, he met me at the top and, instead of throwing me off, decided I’d be an excellent apprentice.

    ‘Bout five years go by, Maron’s got me doing lots of odd jobs; snagging food, killing unruly captives from other bandit groups--the beginner stuff. Then, one fateful day, we decide we’re going to commandeer a boat. We go out to the coast, looking for something, and find a nice tidy vessel; not some shitty sailboat but a great big frigate. Maron decides, seeing as we’re rogues, we’re able to take on higher numbers because, as you’re well aware you sneaky ‘Ghost,’ rogues have the wonderful tendency to vanish and be quicker than anyone in a fight. So, about two in the morning, we steal onto the frigate.

    Right off the bat, I’m thinking there’s something wrong. The guard isn’t anything to worry about, and he’s dressed like anyone else, but he slips below deck before any of us can get to him. Rasshi, a guy with one of the most damningly annoying streaks of impatience I’ve ever known, decides to follow him without Maron’s orders. Maron waits top-side because Maron was a genius among dimwits, and Rasshi doesn’t come back up. Problematic.

    Maron decides instead to have me sneak over the side and go through the biggest porthole window I could. I scaled down quietly, water shining quite nicely in the moonlight, and I come into what I realize is the Captain’s quarters. Very handsome guy in there named Mathias Shaw, working away at a desk. I’m totally invisible, but he grabs a letter opener from his desk and hurls it into the wall just next to my face, not even looking. Gave me chills.

    Turns out Master Shaw’s leading the SI:7 agents from Stormwind; the best of the best of roguery in the Alliance, and he makes the--quite compelling--case in his deep voice that it’s idiotic for me to be hanging about the people who murdered my parents. Upstairs, there’s a scuffle, and Shaw stands, holding out his hand to me. “Care to go up?”

    I took his hand, thinking I’d still stab his kidney, or something like that.

    He paused on the way upstairs though, letting me listen in. Above, one of his agents asked Maron why he killed those innocent farmers, and Maron, whom I’d thought was so wise and different from the rest of his savage band, laughed and said that Azebet and her pretty tits had refused to service him when he’d asked. Nothing about their land; nothing about their crops or animals.

    I ran upstairs and pounced, stabbing through his eye. He’d been tied up and he didn’t die right away, I remember; I straddled him and let out quite a bit of anger.

    The other agents were a bit surprised, but Shaw just walked up the stairs and watched. The others in the bandit group tried to get up and get away but I killed them one by one. It wasn’t clean; it wasn’t pretty. It was angry and damn it felt good.

    Shaw came over and took my blades away--they weren’t much to begin with--and tossed them overboard. He asked me if the agents there should consider me a threat, in which case they’d take me to Stormwind and throw me in a cell, or if I wanted to use the speed and ferocity I had for protection rather than anger. I think it was the only time I ever cried after killing someone, and definitely the only time I hugged him. He didn’t mind blood on his fancy clothes. He never did; good trait to have.

    So for the next--ooh, how long was it--six years, that was it, because I was eighteen when Jareth--

    Well, I’m getting ahead of myself.

    So for the next six years, Shaw’s training me with SI:7. And Varian’s continuously handsome and concerned about me and whatever because it’s Varian and the noble heart of a lion. The first few years, I’m just in Stormwind; getting my accuracy correct, getting my speed and agility and power and the only damn thing that Shaw required before I could be a field agent was that I grow more. So I’m stuck for years doing exercises because of my height. But during that time, there’s this guy training with me, Jareth Black, who’s damned and determined he’s going to get my eye.

    Finally, one day, I decide, fuck it, he’s cute enough, and one of the things Amber and the ladies talked about to other female recruits when they thought I wasn’t listening was seduction. So I try it on Jareth, he’s easy enough, and we have a raucous night. Next morning, he doesn’t realize it’s for training, but something about his puppyish face made me not want to break his little heart. He was good enough in bed that I kept him around for that and told him explicitly nothing in public.

    At sixteen, I grew enough that Shaw let me out to play and I got real missions--and not the beginner shit either; REAL missions. Before sending me off, he gifted me the daggers I still have. Love these blades; they’re balanced and they sing so beautifully.

    Jareth meanwhile stays at SI:7 as some administrator role, and he’s pining away about me. Like, actually asked me to write letters when I could. Never mind that some missions are with guys that take an interest to me, he’s back home waiting. And I started thinking to myself maybe it _could_ be nice to settle down, live with bratty kids; the parenting dream. And you know what happens?

    The portal opens to Outland again, where my Mum had teleported me away from. Gods alone know how she did it. But it opens, and the Burning Legion’s spies infiltrate, and when I come home to my potential husband’s embrace, I find that he keeps lots of twisted demonic shit in his desk. He actually had the audacity to try and tear down SI:7 from within, citing it--correctly--as one of the most dangerous things to the Legion. And when he saw I didn’t really think the same, he actually stabbed me in the chest. The fucker.

    Guess whose head I cut off and gift-wrapped to Master Shaw with a note explaining it all?

    So yeah, that was the closest I had to heartbreak, and one of the last times I ever cried. And then there was another mission where I, for a few years actually, was courting this rich tailor because his family had deep ties and their money could feed back into SI:7--Gods, he was a boring, boring bastard. Really sweet, just damn he was always so shy around me. Like, there’ve been guys that aren’t afraid to be rough--and sometimes they’re too rough, and you have to remind them that you can and will castrate them--but he wouldn’t even touch my hand without prompting. At least there’s others who are downright--kingly, let’s say--in bedding me.

    I did go to Outland for a while to help out there. Not much to like; the place is deserted rock and the sky’s uninspiring. How my mother or my sister could live out there is anyone’s guess--and I never found any trace of them, though there were some people that did know her name. But eventually that whole shitstorm of a planet was cleared up and I came back.

    Then Northrend happened, and fuck Northrend. Fuck Arthas, fuck his whole fucking crusade right to Hell. I hate that whole snowy fucking continent. There’s not a day I didn’t hate life, out there.

    That ended too, blessedly, and I came back; the tailor fawned all over me, I got to serve my King again, I was promoted and heard I’d been nicknamed “The Blade of the Shadows,” which I quite like, and then I was told to collect you and go see Alexstrasza, who might be the one thing in Northrend I like because she’s fucking hot.

    So that’s me. Now, you: Gilneas.

 

Samantha Crow smiled politely up at Kas. The story had taken a while, and during that time, Kas had gotten lunch and fed Xairestraszas again. The dragon had played with his dad, listened to the sounds from the female rogue’s mouth, and eventually as she ended the story hopped over to her bed and headbutted her, the cow still smiling away in his mouth.

“Yes, Drooly?” she said, patting it on the head as someone might do to a favorite piece of furniture.

Xairestraszas MRRRRed at her, flapping his wings, then yelped as the ship heaved dangerously to its side.

Kas rushed and caught the dragon, Sam jolting up and spitting a curse out, looking at the door. She made her way to it as the ship rocked to the other side, opening it and calling out to whoever was down there asking what the hell was happening. The same guard rushed to her, soaking wet, talking of a sudden storm and needing all hands on-deck.

Kas stuffed Xairestraszas into the sling again. The dragon yelped, refusing, but Kas growled loud and it whimpered and curled into the fabric. The rogue carefully took away the cow, immediately soothing Xairestraszas and leaning down to nuzzle him, tucking him in almost tenderly. Then, Kas moved quickly to the hallway.

“Where do you think you’re going, Kas?” Sam called out, rushing to his side.

“All hands. We can help.”

She blinked at him a moment then sighed. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

They went up, and the afternoon and evening drenched them to the bone. Xairestraszas was safe, cowered against Kas, and the ship itself was too--in no small part due to their speed helping out amidst the pouring rain.

When it was finally over, they got supper and stripped, hanging up armor and clothing to dry, soaking their feet in tubs of hot water. Kas kept himself as modest as possible; Sam had no qualms about it or looking at him.

The promise of a story hung in the air, but the day had so thoroughly destroyed their joy that they instead went to bed, muttering a vague goodnight, Kas keeping the whelpling--chewing on the cow again--close to him.


	4. The Start of the Upheaval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha and Kaskaeld get to Borean Tundra, but are delayed. Kas in the downtime begins the story of Gilneas, telling of two major points after the Northgate Rebellion that threw the peninsula into chaos: the fight against the Underground and the coming of the Worgen. Kas begins the story of the first of these with the story of Tanlia, running away from her family, and how it impacted his youth.

The day brought the prospect of travel and the reality of painful inertia. The boat docked mid-morning into the Alliance port in Borean Tundra, Northrend, and the two rogues wandered off of it with extra fur clothes wrapped tight around themselves. The boat waited an hour then departed again, and during that time, Sam and Kas found themselves waiting in line to speak with the commander there.

“This is ridiculous,” Sam muttered repeatedly, but Kas remained quiet, soothing the bundle on his chest, doing his best to keep it warm. “Honestly! I’m on a mission from Wrynn; I just need a goddamn boat out to Wyrmrest--how bloody _hard_ is that to get?”

“Seems pretty hard, if there’s a lot of people voicing what they need as well,” Kas said mildly. The comment wasn’t well-received.

When they finally did make it to the front of the long line that snaked up the stairs of the fortress, they came upon the exhausted form of General Arlos, a tall man in broad plate armor, an eye-patch and a receding hairline combating the otherwise youthful features of his face. At seeing them, his eyes lingered on Sam, and he let out a sigh that seemed to sink his form into the plate.

“Miss Crow.”

“General.” Sam stalked up to him, huffing. “Might I ask why my time was valued less than the common farmers ahead of me? I don’t mind them one bit, but if you don’t want to see me then just tell me ‘no, we aren’t helping you; go away’ and stop wasting my day!”

“Miss Crow,” General Arlos said again, voice dark and teeth gritted, “if I thought to value anyone else’s voice over your _delicate_ tones, it was for good reason. As it so happens, we’re in the middle of a bad crop, and every bit of our supplies and fortitude is on survival. Whatever your concern is, here, while I understand it probably is very worthwhile; it is _not more important than that_.”

The other men in the room--the general’s soldiers--shifted about uncomfortably on their feet. Arlos watched her with a scowl, but Sam made no reply, and both of their gazes turned on Kas, who was, as ever, observing silently.

“Do you talk, sir?” Arlos said.

“I do.”

“Are you similarly displeased that I value the well-being of my little station over your paltry needs?”

“Not particularly, though I would’ve wished for somewhere I could’ve let the little one stretch itself out.” Kas bounced the bundle slung along his chest ever so. Arlos paused, as did the rest, and they glanced at Sam again. Her face dropped, and for the first time she blushed.

“NO, it’s not mine!” she hissed, and the men turned away again.

“That is what we’re here for, though,” she continued, smoothing herself back into a cold, crisp professional. “I’m to escort my cargo to Wyrmrest. No, you can’t ask why. Yes, I will cut out your tongue if you suggest or spread anything.” She glanced around the room, and the men stayed resolutely in place. “Good. Now, sir, I need a ship.”

The general rubbed his face. “Sam--”

“Why not, Arlos?”

“BECAUSE--” the man finally exploded out-- “ALL OUR SHIPS ARE OFF GETTING FOOD! We have to get food to survive! The nearest one coming in is going to be in two bloody days, and that’s just going to and from Kaskala--blessedly, the tuskarr aren’t as idiotic and selfish a race as humans are, and they see the bigger picture and want to help, not bitch about their non-urgent problems to me! You could goddamn well walk to Wyrmrest for all I care, Miss Crow--or wait like a civilian!”

Sam watched him a long, quiet moment, then sighed. “All right: is there somewhere to stay until this vessel to Kaskala comes?”

Arlos let out a loud, angry sigh. “Inn. Opposite the keep. There should be plenty of rooms.”

Sam bowed her head. “Thank you.” She paused, then cleared her throat. “While I don’t appreciate your tone, let me know if you need help from Stormwind and I’ll send out word for supplies.”

The general sunk into a chair, nodding and rubbing sweat from his face. Sam watched him another moment then turned and left. Kas, still placid, followed.

They went outside, the woman walking with a brisk, sharp step fueled by quiet displeasure; the man just taking care of his small babe. They got a room at the inn, and Sam insisted with quiet vehemence on two beds, and they went up, shut the door, and she spat out profanity, each breathy whisper dripping venom.

Kas pulled Xairestraszas out, letting the whelpling stretch its tender wings and prance.

They ordered lunch up to the room, and, not having anything to do for the rest of the day--as Sam insisted they were not attempting to walk the desolate paths of Northrend, even with the Tundra being one of the easier and warmer places there--the conversation lulled. Xairestraszas chewed his favorite cow. Kas rested on his back, seeming sore. Sam scowled but finally relented enough to relax her face. She looked over at him thoughtfully.

“Fuzzy?”

“Mm?”

She propped herself up on her side, watching him. “Care to start in on Gilneas?”

Kas glanced over, then back up at the ceiling. Xairestraszas was curled in at his side, snoozing and sometimes perking up his head to listen. Kas cleared his throat, and began:

 

<The Story of Gilneas>

    The peninsula of Gilneas lies in the southwesternmost corner of the kingdom of Lordaeron. The noble house of Greymane, which has ruled justly as long as any living Gilnean can recall, was led by the patriarch, Genn. His wife, Mia, eventually bore him two children: Liam, their son, and Tess, their daughter. Both would become beloved by the people, and Liam especially would rise to prominence through his determination, positivity, and inspiratory oration.

    Amidst the many people who lived in Gilneas, there were a few factions that found themselves in conflict with the Greymanes. The first of these were, simply, the Lords of the various counties of Gilneas; rich men who believed their money gave them authority over sections of cliffside and hill, and, for all intents and purposes, it did. Some were weaker-backed than others, but one in particular, Lord Godfrey, had a cunning mind that tore down whomever he pitted it against. The only exception was Genn Greymane, and the men--and all the Lords--came to the mutual understanding that the house Greymane which had ruled well would continue to rule just the same.

    Another faction that stood against Greymane’s values was that of Lord Darius Crowley and his followers. King Genn, to protect Gilneas from the encroaching camps of Orcs (among other reasons), decided during the Third War to erect the Greymane Wall along the north-eastern edge of Gilneas. The cliffs were too treacherous on either side to pass, and the massive structure was so high that even gryphons had trouble scaling it. It cut off Gilneas from the rest of Lordaeron, which for many years ensured the safety of Gilneas. It also ensured seclusion.

    Crowley, believing wholeheartedly this decision was foolish, tried to reason with King Genn but eventually turned his protests bloodier, engulfing Gilneas in a civil war known as the Northgate Rebellion, that nearly tore asunder the peninsula’s inhabitants without the outside forces that Genn had so determinedly kept out. In the end, however, the Greymane family and their followers prevailed, and Lord Darius Crowley and his supporters were banished from the land rather than sentenced to death.

    For all the harshness of Genn Greymane, he understood honor. Lord Crowley had helped him many times before, and the betrayal of such a beloved friend, though a deep, harsh cut, was not enough to warrant an execution.

    And so, for years, Gilneas sat in its peace and quiet. It rained almost every day, and on the days it did not, the storm clouds brewed overhead like the swirling iris of a crystal ball. Some went off to war: good men insisted on going to Outland, to Northrend, and each time, fewer came back.

    One last, vile faction that opposed Greymane during Gilneas’s last decades was that of the Gilnean Underground; the ring of criminals and villains that were smarter than a simple bread-thief. They believed in anarchy, were led in hatred, and were smart enough to know that their numbers, however many, could do nothing against Greymane’s army, which was better outfitted and better trained. They hid in the shadows instead, doing all they could to sabotage and look for their openings.

    Among the Gilnean Underground, there was one man in particular whose family ignited the first spark of the first of two upheavals in Gilneas. The first, an internal war, did not rival the Northgate Rebellion but did inspire ferocious fighting along the shadows and the light of the peninsula. The second, an external war, was what finally broke the populace of Gilneas and forced their evacuation.

    The very beginning of the crumbling of the Gilnean Underground came when Jack Mason’s daughter, Tanlia, ran away from home into the night, thirteen years ago:

 

<Tanlia Mason’s Story>

    Tanlia Kazra Mason was thirteen, but she had blossomed early into quite the wondrous young woman. She had three older brothers, all of whom worked with her father, but whatever they did was a mystery. She was bid stay home with her mother, who educated her on writing and reading and song, as well as the practical things any good stay-at-home woman must learn.

    Tanlia detested it, and the prospect of being a man’s object, and so she found every possible road to be the worst daughter to this beleaguered woman. Never, though, in ways that harmed her poor mother, whose life never went further than their garden gates, and whose principal rotation of movement was the kitchen to the living room and back. She revolved solely around the Mason’s house, situated against the woods along the coastline, and somehow she survived it with a smile.

    The smile faded more and more when looking upon her daughter, for Tanlia--who was exceedingly smart, but was quite naive, having never been far from home--found ways to manipulate every “womanly” situation to her own gain: potato stews were ruined with improper spicing, well-knit objects became a mess of yarns, clothes hung out to dry were “forgotten” outside as the next downpour of Gilnean weather struck.

    Tanlia was, to her soft-spoken mother, a nightmare; to her father, she was a girl whose pretty face might fetch a husband, and with luck said husband would be someone that Jack Mason could twist under his thumb and have business with.

    Jack Mason, though by far not one of the highest members of the Underground, still figured himself to have a prominent role in the Gilnean mob of knaves. He was a man whose grand aspirations were cut short by the utter stupidity he carried himself with, the boisterous drunkenness of his being, the damning ego that he flaunted in even the most “respectable” interactions. His sons followed as his apprentices, and, once bigger men, as his bodyguards. He was mean-spirited, selfish, and a pig.

    Finally, one night, after coming home with ale spilling out along his brow in a myriad of sweat, Tanlia’s mother, who had been ill, tried to make supper. Fearing that her mother would collapse, Tanlia made it herself, this time trying to do things right simply to be unnoticed. The effect, however, had the opposite, and Jack, declaring her to be a cook of the highest quality, suddenly became suspicious and grabbed her arm.

    “Tanlia,” he said, voice quiet and serious even as his words blurred together, “Tanlia, my daughter, my pretty thing, how’d you go from an imbecile to a chef?”

    Tanlia kept herself evenly composed. “Mother made the recipe many times, father; I just think I did better this time, that’s all. I tried to use less spice.”

    Jack narrowed his eyes. “Tanlia?”

    She blinked. “Yes, father?”

    “Why don’t you put this much effort into each night’s cooking, hm? Why do you make your mother slave over it for me? What husband wants a wife who’ll make her mother cook instead?”

    Jack’s face drew tauter, and his voice louder.

    “What man’s going to pay for a broken, blithering, worthless girl whose only decent quality is her face and her goddamn chest?”

    Tanlia felt herself blush, and she pulled her arm away sharply from his grasp. Her brows twitched, but she held herself with a regal composure, watching her father with hateful red eyes.

    “Look at you,” Jack muttered. “Like a demon of the night. Firm cheekbones, straight black hair, and those red eyes. Pale complexion with a hint of roses.” He shook his head. “I could offload you on Maxwell, I s’pose. Or,” he glanced at her again, longer. “I could keep you around, I think.”

    Tanlia turned and walked out of the room.

    “Tanlia? Come get the plate. Tanlia!” Jack’s fist slammed the table. “COME GET THIS FUCKING PLATE WHEN I TELL YOU!”

    Tanlia packed her things, waited calmly in her room for the dead of night, then crept out of the house, stopping only to caress her mother’s forehead and kiss it, murmuring a word of sorrow. The night air was cool, and the hinges on the door did not betray the young woman as she stepped out into it. She shivered, and a tear stole down her cheek as the breath left her, and for a moment she was helpless and bereft of life.

    Then she breathed in, and her chest rose, and she realized that all the weight was gone. Everything she’d been pushing against had gone, and she had stumbled through finally into a clearing of the vast unknown.

    She started off towards the woods: beyond it was Gilneas City, and beyond that was the manor of Genn Greymane, whom she hoped giddily might allow her to stay and be a much better servant than she’d been at home. Either way, he had to be a more decent fellow.

    Tanlia made it half a mile into the woods before dread crept in.

    There were animals out there, animals that could hear her. She was sure that so many glistening eyes were following her small form as she went through, trampling the branches and shivering in the night wind. Her cloak was dark, covering her sack of food, and perhaps it was that they smelled? The deer, imposing and large, wouldn’t be as much of a problem as the wolves would be. She gulped, praying no sets of yellow eyes appeared in the bushes ahead.

    Another half-mile went by, and she realized how little walking she’d done in her life, how much her legs ached, and how vast the wilderness was. She might be lost in it forever, and become a faerie that would bewitch travelers, as her mother always said the denizens of the woods did. The trees were thickly populating the land, and the roots were gnarled and clung to her feet as she tried to move through the pathless ground, but there was also a strange sense of peace there. The moonlight made it through only enough to ensure that there was not a complete lack of light, and every step Tanlia took was tentative, her porcelain hands spread out in front of her.

    She never tripped though, and her heart raced with giddy delight at the adventure she was having.

    The wooden world went by, and soon she felt the fear creeping in, stronger. As more time passed, she was frightened she’d be discovered by her father and her brothers, or by the wolves. She had to stumble upon the main road sometime soon--it ran supplies through the woods and was heavily guarded at all times of day and night, to ward off bandits. She could get help from the guards about going to Genn Greymane’s manor--

    A twig snapped behind her, and she paused, turned, and saw in the dark a set of yellow eyes. A quiet growl filled the air. She gasped and fled, rushing forward, hearing behind her the soft and steady padding of paws. A wolf in flight--

    She yelled out into the night, not caring if she drew attention; if the road was close, the guards must hear! The wolf behind her snarled and snapped its jaws, vicious fangs glistening with saliva; she’d die out there in the woods, alone--

    She tripped over a square stone and fell hard, smacking down into a ground of even, painful rock. She whimpered, dazed, and heard a swing of metal in the air above her--

    The wolf’s snarling suddenly ceased, and she heard a thump.

    Tanlia slowly got to her feet, bruised and wincing. Her eyes fluttered weakly and shut as she shielded them: a man was there, and his lantern was bright after the dark forest. She glanced around: behind her, the corpse of a headless wolf was starting to become wet with blood, and the man cleaned and sheathed his sword. Her eyes adjusted, and she saw him better.

    He was a man a little younger than her father. His armor was of the same quality the royals had--that strict, wonderful grey--and his hair, even in the darkness, was the color of wildfire. He smiled pleasantly, and asked if she was hurt.

    She shook her head no, realizing that he was the first man she’d seen that wasn’t her family.

    He seemed quite pleased with the attention, and took her hand, offering it a light kiss. “Sir John Arrendalus Remor,” he murmured, and Tanlia managed to get her own name out, the exhaustion of her escapade starting to settle in.

    Sir John put his arm around her, escorting her to his horse and helping her on the large brown beast. He saddled up close to her, hands resting on her hip, and she gulped, never having had anyone’s touch there. As the horse trotted on the long way to the city, his hands grew bolder in their feelings, and the night was long with pain and a shattered innocence.

    Sir John, upon realizing the youth of his new darling, left her, muttering about getting home to his wife, but the damage was done. Tanlia staggered through the road to Gilneas City, lip trembling, and pleaded for onlookers to help her. The people, though their eyes were pitying, gave no shelter, save one matron whose multitude of women ushered Tanlia in and laid her down to rest upon a cushioned couch.

    The coming months were painful too, as a child grew in her belly. The matron, not willing to employ Tanlia in her brothel, bid her sweep the floors until pregnancy did not allow her to do such, and quietly helped out the child who had so quickly and unwillingly become a woman.

    Tanlia’s child, a beautiful baby girl with wildfire hair like her father, was unanimously bid unwelcome in the brothel. As the matron said, there was no place for a growing girl there: if she grew, she’d become a daughter of the palace of delights, and that was something the matron would not tolerate. Tanlia pleaded with the matron, whom she’d grown fond of, but the choice was simple: give her child up to a home, or leave the--surprisingly strong--protection of the matron.

    Tanlia went to the order of priests, asking for room for her and her child. The priests, though sympathetic, could not give her sanctuary upon learning that her family was one from the Underground. Her father had already hunted for her--and the priests could not protect her like the brothel could. The matron there ruled with an iron fist: even the Underground did not dare cross her. The priests were weaker, though.

    Tanlia emptied her eyes and her heart of emotion, bathing her little child with sorrow and as much love as she could. The priests said they’d take care of her, and would write, but to ensure that her father never found out about Tanlia’s daughter, there should be no physical contact. The priest asked for a name: Tanlia thought, then murmured “Kanhya. My Kanhya. She will always be my little girl.”

    Kanhya, the girl with no last name, was taken in to the priestly Order of Gilneas and taken especially under the care of novice Henry Barastos, one of the kindest priests there at the tender age of thirteen. The decision was made because Henry, who had lost one sister when she was only a few months old, was used to shadow magic. His dark skin danced with it during practice, despite it being outlawed to study by the Order. Kanhya, when nursing, had pulsed with shadow.

    Tanlia returned to the brothel, learning from the matron many useful skills, and eventually learning among them in later years the seduction and manipulation of every type of man and woman.

    Her father, Jack, had searched for her immediately, the day after she’d left. He found no trace until he got to the outskirts of the city, wherein a few beggars on the street, prompted by coin, told of a young woman coming with Sir John Remor, one of the most notorious worshipers of the female form. Jack, seething, found out where he was:

 

<Kaskaeld Remor’s Story>

    Kaskaeld Amadeus Remor had, for the first eight years of his life, been a sweet but lackluster boy. He was a little too thin; he was not interested in getting his hands dirty; he would spout on about various types of clothing. Sir John lamented to his wife, Lady Maria, that he was more ladylike than their younger child, a daughter, Katia Amanda Remor. Lady Maria was more sympathetic, but did her best not to entertain her son’s monologues about the interesting quality of silken patterns and embroideries, the variations of which were sweet and puzzling and how each unique piece defined the artist’s heart.

    More than that, though, Sir John realized that Kaskaeld was a romantic at heart, pining away over the cherub-like beauty of their neighbor’s daughter and insisting that there was no one else he’d ever rather marry or ever look at. And that was idiotic; Sir John knew well--in his warped mind--that one woman was best appreciated when she was a rare commodity among many conquests.

    Kaskaeld was a sweet boy, and always tended to his sister’s needs before his own. He kept her hours filled with artwork, drawing her sunsets and painting (when there were supplies) portraits of her. Sir John had to admit that the boy’s talents, though useless and trivial, were undeniable.

    Nevertheless, Sir John insisted that Kaskaeld learn how to fight on his seventh birthday, and the lessons over the past year had been an unmitigated disaster.

    The boy could barely hold a sword, and he sure as hell couldn’t swing the damned thing; he refused to advance and attack; he couldn’t keep his footing; he was an absolutely worthless fighter.

    The perfectly hopeless, laughing-stock son of a royal guard of Gilneas.

    Sir John’s reputation reached his house, and Lady Maria beset him with accusations on whom he’d lain with. He answered them tacitly, but when Kaskaeld entered the room and timidly asked his parents not to be angry, as it was scaring Katia, his father exploded his rage upon him, dragged him outside, and forced the sword into his hands, only stopping the lesson when the boy was a mess of tears and too weak to even stand. Kas was sent back in, blubbering, and Sir John called out expressly that his wife not pamper the boy any. He’d lived enough with pampering: he had to grow a thick skin now. By the Gods, he would.

    On Kaskaeld’s eighth birthday, the opportunity arose in the worst way possible.

    There was a knock on the door. Sir John, who had been drinking heavily the past few days, trying to forget the age Tanlia had whispered through trembling lips when he’d asked afterwards, answered it--

    --receiving a club to the head that knocked him down to the floor.

    Lady Maria screamed, and Jack Mason and three other young men entered. Jack straddled the dazed royal guard, spitting out words in his face that made Lady Maria’s heart sink:

    “ _Where is my daughter?!_ ”

    Lady Maria tried to usher her children out, but the young men caught her, dragging her and the two scared children to be within Sir John’s view.

    “ _WHERE IS SHE?!_ ” Jack thundered.

    Sir John coughed, vaguely seeing the shapes of his family in the room near him. “They didn’t--” he mumbled-- “They didn’t do anything; please--”

    “No,” Jack growled. “Tell me. Now.”

    “I don’t know where she is. She’s just in the city. Please; don’t harm my family. Hurt me; I deserve it.”

    Jack roared and brought the club down on Sir John’s head, smashing it over and over until there was nothing left but deep crimson. Katia’s screams filled the room, and Kaskaeld did his best to talk to her and shush her. Lady Maria simply watched, face pale.

    Jack stood, looking at the two children, then at the woman. He licked his lips slowly.

    “Boys. Take the kids to the arena; might be fun to see what this guard’s prodigy can do. Leave me alone here.”

    The young men hustled the kids off, and the last thing Kaskaeld saw of his mother was her starting to shake her head before the door closed.

 

Kaskaeld paused in his story, shadows crossing over the lines in his face. Outside, Northrend had darkened, and Sam had turned up the whale oil lantern, listening, enraptured. Xairestraszas had been restless, but had curled up against Kas’s side and consented to being petted for hours.

Kaskaeld’s mouth opened, shut, and he made a slight, strangled noise. The next part of the story was harder.

Samantha Crow got up and crossed the distance to his bed, sitting herself down on the side and putting a hand on his arm. “Tomorrow,” she said gently, patting him.

He nodded weakly then turned his face away, gazing up at the stars above. Perhaps he was dreaming of how he could put them into a painting. Sam watched him a long time then went to bed.


	5. Blood and Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaskaeld continues the story of Gilneas while he and Samantha wait for the boat, telling of his initiation into the Underground and Kelleniana's traumatic upbringing.

The cold, bitter rains of Northrend came down on them during the day. Higher up in the other regions, this storm would’ve been a blizzard, pounding their doors with sheets of icy snow and wind, but here, at some of the lowest points, it was simply the kind of rain that drenched you to the bone and left a cough that wouldn’t go away.

Samantha and Kaskaeld had gotten their breakfast delivered to their room, but upon seeing from their window the farmers up the hill struggling to harvest what they could, the rogues went out for the day to help, bundled up as best as possible. The hours were long, the rain unending, and the repayment nonexistent, but it was something to pass the time and something worthwhile to help. Xairestraszas stayed dry, bundled against Kas under many layers of fur and leather and cloth.

The meager sunlight faded from the cloud-cover, and, with the work done for the day, they trudged home to face the best possible hot baths gold could by there. Shivering and needing to let everything dry off anyway, they clambered into the metal tubs filled with steaming water, hissing and huffing but finally relaxing back. The room wasn’t as large, and the tubs were close enough that Sam could’ve batted at his arm, but both of them just wanted the water’s heat against them.

Kas brought Xairestraszas into the tub too, and though the lizard squawked and flapped water out, it settled once it was used to the feeling and even seemed to drift into sleep, purring. Kas made sure to support the whelpling, at least in keeping its snout above the water, and cleaned its red scales as gently as possible. Samantha glanced over, finally feeling better, and asked him to continue his story, if he was up for it.

Kas paused, looking at her. “It’s unpleasant.”

“I can handle unpleasant, Fuzzy.”

Kas watched her a moment more, then cleared his throat and continued:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    The Underground had killed Kaskaeld’s father, and taken the boy:

 

<Kaskaeld Remor’s Story, Continued>

    Kaskaeld and Katia were dragged into Gilneas City through one of the sewer run-off tunnels at the banks of the City’s edge. The Underground didn’t mind their struggles, gagging them and keeping them in the air as they flailed. They went a mile inland, twisting and turning in the dark, then ascended a ladder into a dingy little hallway of blank, cold stone. Torches lit it, and they wandered down a hall, opening a steel door and throwing the children into a dark stone room.

    The door slammed, and Katia wailed, finding Kaskaeld and clinging to him. Shaken as he was, trembling and crying, he stayed quiet, being the comfort to his scared little sister and hugging her close.

    They stayed in darkness throughout the day, and Kas explored the area with his fingers.

    The room was small, made of rough rocks pressed together hard. There was a small “bed” of flat straw against the cold floor. There was the door.

    Hours passed.

    When their stomachs were rumbling and Kas had a vague sense that the sun had gone down--it had to have, by now--the door opened and the piercing light of the dim torches burst into the room. The children winced and firm hands dragged them out into the hallway. Kas protested, getting a switch against his back that silenced him with a yelp.

    His eyes slowly adjusted, and he saw that they were twisting and turning down the corridors of stone, going upwards too. They stumbled along at a quick pace, pulled up and up--coming finally to a gate. The light on the other side was blinding compared to the dim halls, and the clamor of many overlapping voices roared out. The gate opened, the children were pushed through, and through the noise, Kas heard the roar of “FRESH MEAT!”

    He held up a hand against the light, his other being held tight by Katia. He saw quickly that they were in a large circle, with a dirt floor and raised walls. Around them, spectators yelled from seats--men and women with fancy dress. Kas blinked.

    At the other side of the circle, a thin man scoffed and stood up. He was just wearing leather pants, and his torso was cracked with scars and hair. He looked like a rabid dog, and grinned at the two newcomers, cracking his knuckles.

    Kas’s heart sank. He was in an arena.

    From the stands, an announcer boomed out his voice: “LAAAADDIIIIIIEEEEES AND GENTLEMEN OF GILNEAS! A NEW TWOSOME FOR THE BARBARIC, THE BRUTAL, THE BASTARD: KIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOGGGG!”

    The rabid-looking man roared and raised his arms high, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

    The announcer turned to the children. “AND OUR FRESH MEAT: THE CHILDREN OF JOHN REMOR!”

    The crowd spat fury at them.

    Katia wailed, confused and clinging to her brother, but Kas stood mortified, knowing exactly what was happening--what they were there for. Kas moved his sister back, taking a firm breath.

    “Kati. Kati!”

    She whimpered and looked up at him, sniffling. Kas put a hand on her arm, squeezing.

    “Stay right here and don’t move. And shut your eyes. Okay?”

    Katia whimpered again louder.

    “Katia, I’m not playing! Stay still and don’t watch!”

    Katia trembled but shut her eyes. Kas gulped, turning back, looking at the rabid champion. “Kilrog” smirked, pointing at him then sliding a finger across his throat. The crowd screamed in savage anticipatory anguish.

    Kas moved away from his sister to the center of the ring, gulping. Kilrog chuckled, staring down at him, dark eyes behind black, matted hair. The crowd quieted slightly, watching--

    Kilrog sprinted forward. Kas tried to remember the stances Sir John had taught, bracing--

    A sharp kick cracked into his ribcage, and the world went blank and breathless. He hit the ground hard, dazed, hearing a ripple of laughter in the air and jeers. One voice in particular floated to him.

    “I’ll carve the little bitch open for you to see.”

    Kas glanced up weakly at the sneering rabid-man, the voice’s owner, turning to stalk towards Katia. The world around him silenced. Something snapped. Kas’s hand found a rock. Gripped it tight. He was on his feet again, moving quickly, jumping,

    He crashed into the rabid-man, hearing him roar, knocking him off-balance,

    The man punched his face. Connected. It hurt. Kas brought the rock down hard. There was a crack in the air, a yell, and something warm and squishing and wet beneath the rock now. Kas saw it was red. He roared in defiance, raising his arm again, bringing it down. Again.

    Again.

    He was a child no more.

    The crowd was silent, watching, and the guards dragged him off the corpse. He thrashed about, and they threw him down into the darker tunnels again with his sister by his side. With Katia there, he settled, and everything came flooding back to him. In the blackness of their room, he shuddered and wept, but they were awarded food and water which they consumed ravenously.

    A year passed. Kaskaeld Remor became a monster of unbridled fury in the ring; a vicious older brother protecting his little sister.

    At age nine, when the door to their cell opened Kas was brought the other way down the hall. It sloped up, too, but the children were led out into the cool air of the Gilnean night. They were thin and pale, shivering at the cold, but Garrett Blackson paid that no mind, escorting them away through alleyways to a comfortable home. They were bid eat, and did so until they were sick with the delicious banquet afforded them. The room around them was well-lit and well-furnished, and they were bathed and taken up to a bedroom.

    Garrett met them, seating himself on the edge of Kas’s bed. Garrett had short, jet black hair, calm blue eyes, and a perpetually impassive gaze. He watched the child who was no longer a child, and then looked away at the other side of the room, where little Katia slept.

    “My money was that you’d die, that first fight,” Garrett said, voice soft and impassive. He looked back to the boy. “But you pulled out surprising ferocity. It was interesting to see.”

    Kas said nothing, listening, his brown eyes changed to a perpetually darker, haunted tinge.

    “All because of wanting to protect your little sister, I imagine.” Garrett nodded once to himself. “Admirable. But being admirable leaves you vulnerable.

    “Do you know where you are? Who we are?”

    Kas shook his head, eyes brooding on the man.

    “Cut that look out before I blind you, boy.”

    Kas looked away.

    “Good lad. You’re in Gilneas City. One of those back alleyways your mother probably warned you about. She’s dead, by the way; don’t get your hopes up Jack Mason kept her alive, because he didn’t. He’s dead too, for what it’s worth.”

    Kas glanced up, surprised.

    “Jack Mason had too many boisterous ideas and tried to go behind our backs in matters to get himself places, and he wound up in a muddy ditch.” Garrett held Kas’s gaze, speaking calmly. “So let’s be clear, boy: if I don’t like you; if you disobey, or you put shit for effort at what I tell you, I’m taking the little girl away to Gods-know-where. I will make you beg to be put back in that cell. But if you do what I want, and you do it with some kind of backbone, then I give you my word, as one of the top leaders of every single bastard in Gilneas, I would tear down mansions to keep that little lady pure and carefree. Savvy?”

    Kas glanced at his sister, then back at the man. After a moment, he nodded slowly.

    “Good. Very good. You’re going to eat like a pig for the next week, and recover your strength from those charlatan proles using you as a circus attraction, and then we’re going to train. The Underground employs some children, but their tongues can be bought for bread and their secrets are plentiful if we’re idiotic. We need someone who still looks innocent--someone small--who can get into those places we can’t. And that’s you.”

    Kas thought to himself that he didn’t look all that innocent anymore--he’d caught a glimpse of his reflection, and he looked halfway like a corpse.

    “So, you’ll eat, you’ll recover, and you’ll learn something practical. Aye?”

    Garrett watched Kas expectantly. Kas nodded, slight.

    “Aye, boy?”

    Kas swallowed. His voice tasted like dried paper in his throat. “Aye.”

    “Good lad.”

    Garrett left, and Kaskaeld Remor slept.

    The next week passed by, and Kas rested himself. Katia became a chatterbox again but clung to her brother anywhere they went in the lovely house. Garrett came and silently checked on their recovery progress every day, and finally at the end of the seventh day escorted Kas down to the basement of the home, letting his assistant--a lovely young woman with far too bright lips named Myra--take over watching Katia.

    In the basement, there were an assortment of blades, targets, and devices Kas had never known. Garrett stood him under a torch and took a step back, crossing his arms.

    “Vanish from my sight.”

    Kas blinked at him incredulously. He started to step away; there was a shadowed nook--

    “Without moving!”

    Kas paused, settling back where he was. He blinked at Garrett then frowned, opening his mouth but shutting it again.

    “Are you a fish, boy? Vanish. Now.”

    “I don’t know what you mean,” Kas managed, eyebrows furrowing together.

    Garrett suddenly faded away before his eyes, and Kas’s eyes widened, looking around the room. Garrett reappeared again, just where he was.

    “Vanish.”

    “I--” Kas stammered, then the boy shut his mouth. He gulped. Took a breath. Frowned and concentrated. _Go invisible_ , he muttered at his mind, but he knew it was a stupid, idiotic thing to say, and utterly impossible.

    “Kaskaeld Remor. Vanish. _Now_.”

    Kas shut his eyes, breathing fast. If he failed, would Katia--?

    “Just because you can’t see me, boy, doesn’t mean you’re invisible!” Garrett said, voice raising. Kaskaeld’s face shuddered and he hissed back a biting reply, one that would’ve just brought pain--

    Suddenly, he pressed away the rogue lord. He pushed away the room’s noise. He pushed away the heat from the torch. The same blankness from fighting took hold, and Kas breathed even.

    “Huh,” Garrett said. “Decent enough for a start.”

    The rogue lord walked over to a weapon’s rack, pulling out two sets of daggers, both of them blunted and dulled but still painfully hard metal. Kas’s ear twitched, and he followed in the blankness of his mind the sound of those feet, mapping out the location just like he’d been able to map out sounds from the pitch black cell.

    Garrett tossed the daggers at Kas, and Kas brought up his hands, catching one and fumbling with the other. His eyes were still tight shut.

    The rogue lord moved over, raising a brow, holding the blades ready. “You’re making this harder on yourself?”

    Kas held his blades up as well. Garrett shook his head, settling into a relaxed stance--

    Moving quick, stabbing at Kas in the side.

    The metal hit, and Kas winced, slashing at him haphazardly. The rogue darted back, watching him.

    “Loosen your grip with your index and middle finger. Your ring and pinkie should be tighter.”

    Garrett stabbed at him again, sending another jolt through Kas’s side before he could block.

    “Work at least from your elbow. If you work daggers from your shoulder, you’ll be slow. Ideally, you’d work them from your wrist, but you’re definitely not there yet. So focus on moving from your elbow.”

    Garrett came in again, connecting the dulled metal point with Kas’s solar plexus, causing the boy to writhe back in pain.

    “And for fuck’s sake, open your eyes, you little idiot. You’ll never get anywhere like this.”

    Kas growled. The sound shifted in the room as Garrett came in again--

    Kas slashed again haphazardly but blocked the first dagger. The second glanced off his shoulder, but Kas landed a slicing blow against Garrett’s side. The rogue lord moved back in surprise, then smiled.

    “All right. We’ll try it your way, then.”

    They trained for three hours every day for another year.

 

Kas paused, rubbing his face. Sam was listening intently, and Xairestraszas was occasionally doing likewise, when he wasn’t snoozing. They’d lost track of time in the bathtubs, and got out, eating and going up to their bedroom. Sam pressed him though to continue, once they were there:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    The Gilnean Underground, having acquired their newest asset in the form of young, ten-year-old Kaskaeld Remor, decided that they could set him out on missions and bring back good information. The boy was better than Garrett could’ve hoped for, and always brought back a slew of excellent information that was turned around on increasingly desperate and paranoid nobles.

    One particular incident, though, remained problematic for the Underground. In the first mission where Kaskaeld was bid kill, at age thirteen, the Ghost of Gilneas stuttered and paused, letting the target go. Garrett himself committed the assassination, and Katia was taken away from the mansion. Kaskaeld roared and protested, almost getting violent, surprising the other members of the Underground there who had rarely heard him speak aside from the recounting of missions--and had most certainly never seen him emote. The boy was a powder keg ready for a match.

    Put back firmly in his place though, Garrett told him bluntly that the girl was being transferred out of Kaskaeld’s sight due to his mistake. If it happened again, she’d be transferred out of life. The next man Kaskaeld was sent to kill was butchered, and Kas grew quieter by the day.

    One year later, when he was fourteen, there was an even more graphic incident that shocked Gilneas and shook even the Underground’s foundations:

 

<Kelleniana’s Story>

    Where the beautiful little girl with tan skin and auburn hair had come from was anyone’s guess. All they had known was that she had appeared on the porch of the orphanage twelve years ago in a bassinet marked “Kelleniana,” and that she had the most beautiful emerald eyes.

    Kelleniana had, during her childhood, proved to be sweet and helpful to the staff of the struggling orphanage, but had been too strange for the other children to get near her. As soon as she could learn to talk, there were stories floating through the halls uneasily that she would speak into dark corners of rooms, where there were only shadows, and find a friend in the empty air.

    The friend’s name was Nazwena.

    When asked to draw Nazwena by one of the matrons, Kelleniana smiled and did her best, drawing a lovely young woman with long raven hair and very few clothes, satyr hooves, bat wings, horns, a tail, and the golden eyes of a demon. Kelleniana’s books were all taken away and read thoroughly, but the staff found no evidence of whatever could’ve prompted such a hideous imaginary friend. Only one, an old cleaning-man named Markos, recognized the drawing as a succubus, giving the young girl particularly bright, fearful smiles when he passed by.

    As Kelleniana grew up, it became apparent that she was increasingly sad and lonely, and that the other children there were growing angrier and nastier, lashing out from their own insecurities. Markos befriended her, sitting with her while she ate, telling her stories of far off lands he’d visited (only in the novels of Elise Starseeker, but Kelleniana need not know that) and eventually mustering up the courage to ask Kelleniana why Nazwena would come and visit her. Kelleniana grew thoughtful, and said she’d ask.

    The next day, Kelleniana said that she’d asked Nazwena that, and that Nazwena had said she’d been the one who dropped off Kell, and would look after her with all the ferocity of a mother lion. Naz--Kell loved to call her Naz--said that Kell’s mother was also her mother, and that Kell’s father was very mean and powerful, and that Kell’s mother had ushered her children away so that they were safer and happier.

    Markos frowned deeply, looking at the girl. Young as she was, there was a youthful charm that captivated the eye, and the old man crossed his arms, thinking. If the girl was telling the truth, then she was something unheard of: a hybrid. Warlocks, Markos knew, had affairs with their succubi all the time, but for a spawn to live and grow past even one year--

    Markos resolved to do the unthinkable, and, the next time he was alone in the basement, where all the oldest pieces of the orphanage were lying dormant, he looked into the dark empty passages and spoke:

    “Nazwena! Succubus of the girl Kelleniana! I want a sign that you’re real.”

    The darkness had no answer for him, but when he turned and left, he felt a woman’s slender hand brush his side and soft lips kiss his ear, a sultry voice murmuring:

    “I’m real.”

    Markos fled, never returning to the basement and refusing to stay in the orphanage past sunset.

    The other children were likewise growing more and more afraid of Kell, and ostracized her for it more. The girl was, at the succubus’s prompting, getting up in the night and letting green fire lick along her fingers. She could even, according to one scared little boy, make a full ball of the fel flame.

    When Kelleniana was just turning twelve, the worst possible thing in the world happened.

    One of the elite of the Underground, a slimy, wretched creature named Howard Stonecutt, took over the orphanage, ready to use it as a front for other business, namely the import and distribution of illicit substances. One of the Darnassians was selling psychoactive mushrooms, and the Underground could sell them in turn to the rich and desolate alike, promising wild experiences.

    The problem was that Kelleniana had matured early, and Howard Stonecutt was a vicious, evil creature.

    Nazwena, when Kelleniana had matured, had become a more active imaginary friend. Where the young girl went, anyone that crossed her felt a jolt, and anything thrown at her miraculously was knocked aside. The other children, who had given up trying to tease her, simply avoided her like the plague. As long as Kell had Naz, that was fine--but one day, Naz had simply vanished, and Kell was left alone. During this time, the period of a few months, Howard Stonecutt took a deep interest in the girl, and when Naz returned, she found her little half-sister a broken, tearful wreck.

    The succubus, insane with fury and guilt, channeled her power into her darling friend, and one fateful night, a leaping, wicked fire crackling green against the rain consumed the building. The children fled to the winds, and some of the staff as well, but the ones who had turned a blind eye burned, and Howard Stonecutt was never heard from by the Underground again.

    Greymane Manor, aroused by the commotion, woke to the flames burning out in the night and a sudden pounding on the front door, as of terrible power demanding entry. The door was opened, and Kelleniana, soaked to the bone with the storm outside and looking gaunt and wild-eyed, stepped quietly in. Queen Mia rushed her children out of the room, and King Genn looked on in horror and pity, stepping forward to receive the visitor.

    From the girl’s shadow, the misty image of her demonic half-sister loomed, and Genn paused in his tracks.

    Kelleniana threw the two terrible things in her hands on the ground in front of him. One was the blackened head of Howard Stonecutt--the other was the man’s journal.

    “I’m going to take care of my sister,” Nazwena’s sultry voice said, echoing through the chamber with a vicious sharpness. “She will sleep here tonight with no one guarding her. You will build her a small cottage in the woods, and you will never try and get her. You will never put another man in charge of her. Never, Greymane.”

    Genn picked up the book, looking at them both, flipping through it randomly. He paused. Read. His face sank. He ordered his guards to show the little girl to a room, and to commission as quickly as possible a house for her in the woods, where she could easily return to Greymane Manor if she needed anything. Kelleniana was escorted away, and Genn Greymane read the rest of the journal.

    When Mia came back from tucking in their children, she found the King sitting on the steps in his hall, his head in his hands, silently weeping.

    That was seven years ago, now.

 

Kas broke off in the story, rubbing a hand down his face. Samantha was watching him, focused, but he shook his head.

“No more, tonight. No more.”

Samantha opened her mouth, found no words, then managed to find something, anything to say; “does it get worse, Fuzzy?”

“No,” Kas replied, turning down the lantern, leaving their room lit only by the stars above. “The rest is difficult, but nothing could get worse than that.”

Samantha nodded, watching him and the dragon drift to sleep, but when she laid back in her own bed, she found for once that her thoughts were too frantic and too cold to let her easily drift away herself.


	6. Darkness on a Turtle's Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kas and Sam finally get underway with tuskarr sailors to Kaskala, and during the trip they hear a traditional tuskarr story, as well as Kas's continuation of Gilneas with Kanhya's first outburst.

Daylight came with a surprisingly mellow warmth. Kas woke up with a stuffed cow bumping into his face and Xairestraszas grunting on the other end, wanting to play. Kas grumbled but hoisted himself up, playing for a small while with the whelpling and getting him food.

Sam was already up and dressed, looking out the window. “Boat arrives in about half an hour, Fuzzy.”

Kas nodded, standing and changing into his leathers, getting the protesting Xairestraszas into the sling, and going to the docks with his rogue guard.

The boat was nothing like Kas expected. It was, in fact, not even a boat, though it had travelers riding on it and cabins built up on it--it was a deck firmly planted on the back of a giant sea turtle, with a fishing rod apparatus built to hang over its mouth, a large tasty treat dangling over it when the sailors wanted to go.

The sailors themselves were tuskarr: gigantically rotund brown walrus-men, bipedal, tusks hanging halfway down their chest with heavy eyebrows and huge mustache-whiskers on their light cheeks the only kind of hair on their bodies. They were all jovial, and brought off huge crates to the shores, where guards in the town moved people back and brought the supplies to the keep, grunting at how much they weighed.

Lots of fish to feed a starving town.

General Arlos himself came out, thanking the sailors profusely and shaking their hands. The tuskarr chuckled, not seeming used to such gratitude, and chatted for a pleasantly long while. Sam led Kas through the crowd and past the guards, standing off to the side and waiting.

Arlos saw them and paused. “I have another favor to ask you, if that’s all right,” he said, turning back to Hak’rala, the boat’s captain. The large walrus-man bowed his head, listening.

“These two--” he motioned at the rogues, “--need passage as far as you can take them. They’re headed to Wyrmrest Temple; the Queen is expecting them. If you could take them to Unu’pe, or even Kaskala, I will gladly pay you back whatever you need.”

Hak’rala chuckled heartily, clapping a hand on Arlos’s arm. “My friend, five crates of fish is a favor. Transporting two small folk--that is nothing.” He held up a hand, stopping the General before he could say anything. “We have not forgotten in Kaskala the help you sent against the Kvaldir.”

Arlos nodding, clapping the walrus-man’s arm in kind, eyes speaking volumes of gratitude. Hak’rala turned to the rogues. “Come!” he said, “We’ve far to go and the waters are cold; best to start now and keep our youth!”

Hak’rala barked an order, and his sailors, resting themselves a moment on the shore, grunted and stood again, clambering up the make-shift gangplank. Hak’rala smiled, motioning Kas and Sam up, and they made their way up onto the great turtle’s back. Hak’rala himself came last, and the gangplank was pulled away while one of the crew teased the meal down before their boat’s face again. The turtle snapped at it, starting to swim forward, and they left the shore behind, going out among the frigid sea winds into an expanse of icebergs and penguins. The tuskarr steered the turtle northeast, and they ascended the shoreline.

Hak’rala came over to the rogues, introducing himself with a bushy smile. They introduced themselves in kind, and Hak’rala asked if they wished to see their room.

“The trip will take long?” Sam asked.

Hak’rala nodded his thick head, mustache-whiskers twitching. “A full day’s journey. Tor’ta’na is not the fastest boat to travel by, but she’s the sturdiest. In frigid seas, a sturdy ship that will weather the waves is far better than some slick vessel, easily capsized, mm?”

Sam nodded.

“We can take you as far as Kaskala, but not further. Urgent as your mission might be, we must make up for five crates of fish, given in good-will to the small folk at Valiance Keep. Unu’pe is out of our way.”

“Kaskala’s fine, thank you,” Sam said. Hak’rala smiled and nodded.

“Do you need any help, on-deck?” Kas offered.

The walrus captain turned to him, chuckling. “Your offer is well appreciated, but if we boatmen needed to call upon help, we would be embarrassed to call ourselves ‘tuskarr.’”

Kas nodded. The turtle under them was picking up speed, going at a decent pace through the water. Icy wind blasted their faces, but the tuskarr, who had coats stacked along one side of the boat, remained topless for the time being. Their mass of muscle and blubber shielded them.

Hak’rala regarded the two humans with a smile. “Were you asking to help in order to fill up the hours of the day?”

Kas raised a brow. “Well, it would be decent to offer help, but aye, we didn’t bring books to pass the time.”

Hak’rala nodded, sitting down on a crate and motioning them sit against the wall of the ship, where the winds could not reach them as easily. Though still very defensive in nature, the two rogues did so, not knowing what would happen next.

Hak’rala reached into his pocket, bringing out a traditional pipe and a small pouch of powdered incense. He lit it with a match produced from his other pocket, puffed on the pipe for two breaths, then let out a billow of sweet-smelling smoke.

“The best thing to pass the time, as told by my father Ro’pata and his father Pa’lokto and all the ancestors whose names are written in the walls of memory, is to tell stories. There are many stories we turskarr tell: brave men and women, hunters and shaman and wise elders. Stories of fools, of loss, of love. Stories to inspire weeping, or laughter and mirth. Stories of ancestors and Beings of power.

“In all of these stories, one must have a favorite. While many of my peers might prefer those tales so well-known, that of the sea Goddess Oacha’noa, or the lovers Koa’loro and Ananto, my favorite story is one that is not at all remembered, but which I take great pride in knowing well:

 

<The Story of O’Tombe, the Hunter of Horns>

    There are many levels of tuskarr society, though to outsiders it does not seem this way. At the top, the most revered, are not the elders that so many small folk refer their questions and respect to, but the shaman. The shaman, after all, knows everything, for the shaman communes in things above anything else we could hope to dream of. The shaman understands which incense emboldens the spirits; which dissipates them. The shaman knows how to heal wounds that cannot be healed; how to build up a little-tusk from nothing; how to tear down the legacy of an elder corrupted by ego and power, which is rare, and which I’ve never heard of needing to happen, for the elders know it is possible and respect their duties. The shaman knows all secrets and greets us individually with complete knowledge of our person and our lives.

    Beneath these shaman, there are the elders, and I do not have to explain their significance to our society. The elders run our villages; they choose which of us eat when the food is scarce, which of us hunt and which of us craft statuary and which of us leave to explore or settle somewhere new. The elders are wise, and make their choices with our best interests and strengths in mind.

    Then there are those who carve, those who honor the ancestors and the Deities in their work. They are quiet and few, but they work from the sun’s rise to the sun’s sleep, and their work remains imbued with honor and empathy for those higher beings to speak through the stone.

    Then there are those mothers who stay and work tirelessly to raise the next generation and to bolster their minds and hearts with our culture, so that it may never die out.

    Then there are the hunters, for they bring us food and safety. The hunters on land, who cull the invading wolvarr tribes; the hunters in the waves, who kill crabs and sharks and fish.

    Then there are the sailors; us--who promote and spread our culture and voice to you small folk. We are lesser in our roles; we understand this, we honor our roles, and we are still greeted with cheering and love on the shores of our villages, for without us, there would be none who could reach out for help should our villages need it. We are swift and we are humble.

    It is, then, an odd tuskarr who does not fall into any category as much as transcend all. Such a tuskarr is O’Tombe, the Hunter of Horns.

    There are many whispers heard from the youth of O’Tombe: many who tell the story believe that he was brought back to the village by a shaman on a vision-quest, or that he was a wolvarr pup who became a tuskarr, or that he was an incarnation of Cra’no’ahtat, the son of the Goddess Oacha’noa. They speak of O’Tombe glowing in moonlight, or sleeping on his feet, or besting the village’s elder in argument when he was only four years of age.

    The only thing that everyone agrees upon, in regards to O’Tombe’s youth, was that he was not from the village he belonged to, and that he was born with tenacity that bested rabid wolves.

    When O’Tombe was of age, he was called before the elder to hear his designated role. He had shown strong signs of all paths--whatever he dedicated himself to, he would achieve success. However, before the elder could speak, O’Tombe said these words, calm as a placid sea:

    “Elder, I know not what you wish of me, nor what this village wishes of me. I know that I am unusual, and that fear lingers in your hearts, especially in the hearts of those shaman who rule here but cannot define me.

    “I know what I will do with my life, and whether you grant your grace over it, it is what I know shall be right. I will be the Hunter of Horns, for without it, this village will fall, and all that you love will be carried away along the back of a great beast.”

    To tell the elder you would do what you wished is unheard of, for it disrespects the decades of wisdom they have amassed by believing they would not give their best blessing on your life’s role. The elder was as furious as he was uneasy, and bid O’Tombe leave the village, never to return. O’Tombe bowed his head but put up no quarrel, and a year passed without his presence. The year was quiet, and the people settled back into life.

    The following summer, word spread from other villages of a terrible creature seen in the woods. The people clamored to hear more: the thing was as tall as five tuskarr, with a long, lithe body and gleaming grey eyes. Some accounts told that its head was the house of a stags antlers with thirty prongs each--other accounts believed that the whole body curved out with horns like ribcage bones, jagged like fangs and cruel to touch.

    People disappeared from those villages. Where the beast was seen, the hunters went out and never came home. Their spears were found peacefully on the ground along with their fallen kills, ready to be brought home. Their tracks simply ended in the woods, and they were never found among the ancestors when shaman, in desperation, tried to find them once more. They were lifted from the world, and the only thing that came of it were more gleaming grey eyes in the dark nights.

    Then, word came no more from the villages. The shaman of O’Tombe’s former village searched desperately, but when their spirits came upon those familiar locales, they found the embers burning cold in the fire. Meals were prepared and left. Fishing poles rested on the ground, the bait eaten without a struggle. Baby toys rested solitary in bassinets.

    Everyone was gone.

    Then, from the woods, the gleaming grey eyes came to watch the village O’Tombe had lived in. Moonlight could not penetrate the thick forest branches, but the shadows of a huge, thin creature, whose long body hosted jagged, twisting points, terrorized the minds of the last tuskarr.

    In vain, the elder pleaded to the shaman to know what was happening. The shaman was, for once, unable to answer, for the ancestors had not seen these monsters before and the Deities did not reply, and in silence the village trembled and waited. Summer drained into autumn, and the chill set in without the usual foodstocks from the forest for winter--for the hunters had been strictly forbade from leaving, and guarded the village with grim hunger.

    Then, one night, the hunters were taken.

    As the village awoke, there were the sounds of screams. The shaman and the elder rushed out to see their hunters consumed by a beast of darkness--lifted into the air by a being of swirling cruel bones, pressed against its chest and sucked into a pool of black, cursed water like a rock falling into silt.

    The monsters advanced passed the guards fallen posts, rushing to the defenseless villagers--

    From the shadows of the forest, with a roar that shook the earth, a figure of strength clad in similar bone armor leapt, brandishing a spear of dark blue rock and stabbing through the neck of the beast. The beast screeched and fell, and where it fell it burst like a sac of ink, soaking the ground with a patch of black that did not fade for the next two years.

    The other beasts roared but fell back, and from the remains of the first one, the bodies of the hunters lay still on the soaking soil. Their family approached, but the hunter waved them back with a fierce growl. He was not without reason, for as soon as the bodies stirred, then screeched with the same evil pitch as the creatures of horn and bone, and their eyes were grey.

    The tuskarr hunter clad in horn and bone stabbed them, and they melted away too.

    O’Tombe took off his helm of twisting horns and looked to the elder with his same calm eyes. “I will stay, and you will live.”

    The elder nodded, unable to speak against such a figure.

    The next night, the creatures returned, and the same night, O’Tombe killed three. At sun-up, he ventured into the forest and stalked two more to death, a feat the shaman observed by following him through visions. What had happened--what the creatures were, where O’Tombe had gone and what material the spear he wielded was--was a winding mystery never answered.

    The next night, an army of creatures came through the woods. They assaulted the village with severity enough that the seas frothed without wind and the ancestors fled in fear. O’Tombe held the line against them, and against fangs of darkness and claws of bone he fended them off, killing the shadow and leaving the bone. None ran from him; they thought to break him with sheer numbers, but as the sun arose, O’Tombe, washed black in their blood, stood with his lacerated body and yelled defiance at the emptied forest.

    O’Tombe then threw his spear, planting it firmly at the edge of the forest, sank to his knees, and died.

    The spear faded to the elements, but none dared move it, for even as the forest shivered and sighed with sounds, nothing dared reach the village again from out of it. When the tuskarr repopulated and spread out again, they blessed the new villages and honored the fallen hunter with a shrine of horn he had vanquished at the edge of each forest. And they too were safe.

    That was long ago, and O’Tombe is long forgotten, save in dreams, for the forests have now been long settled and explored so that no inch of them teems anymore in shadow.

 

Hak’rala smiled, puffing again on his pipe. Sam and Kas listened with as much intrigue as they could muster, but the long, agonizing hours of the journey--hurrying and then waiting once more--were wearing upon them heavily.

The crew ate, and they were given a meal of cooked fish that was bare but pleasant. Kas discreetly fed Xairestraszas but did not let the whelpling out until the rogues excused themselves to their small cabin. There was only one bed, and after much exasperated argument, Sam conceded to take it so that Kas could “play the martyr.”

Xairestraszas was let stretch his wings, and Kas played with the small babe throughout the afternoon and into the evening. Sam shut her eyes but did not fall asleep, and finally, when the sound of the waves beating against the turtle was unbearable, she asked Kas in a tone that denoted a command to continue his story:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    Seven years ago, Kelleniana shocked the Gilnean royalty and upset the top shelf of the Gilnean Underground, for one of their biggest branches of external acquisition and distribution had its head literally cut off and its body exposed through the journals, naming names and roles. The same year, Kanhya turned 6 at the priest’s convent and greatly disturbed the balance there.

    The little girl, as I believe I mentioned, had the ability to wield shadow magic, which, as the antithesis to the good and pure Light, was strictly forbidden. When you forbid something from a child, it can go over a myriad of ways--in Kanhya’s case, she was well-behaved, shy, sweet; but she was emotional, and anyone who wields some form of magic can tell you plainly that it ties in, very deeply, to your emotions. It didn’t help, then, that every outburst she had produced Shadow, which was in turn criticized and that only made it worse.

    The one saving grace the girl had from being a bomb was Henry Jacobi Barastos, then age nineteen. I believe I’d mentioned that the fellow was particularly well-versed in shadow--if I didn’t already, then know it now. Where Kanhya was a rainbow of colors, with orange flaming hair and brown eyes against warm, peachy skin, Henry was one-tone dark; deep brown skin like chocolate, thick black hair. His white robe just cemented the darkness on him, and the one piece of color stood out strikingly: light blue eyes, like a cloudless sky.

    Henry, having taken her in, worked tirelessly with her on controlling the Shadow and her emotions, as well as training her in the Light. While neither of them could ever master it the way the holiest priest would, they both were disciplined and used that discipline to keep themselves in check.

    One day, Henry was called away for a visit from his brother, Yaranh, who went usually only by Anh. Anh, being one year older, was trained far more in combat than Henry and was vicious with a sword and shield. The man could and would take a battering but deliver out a devastating hit in kind, and with that talent he was taken in immediately by the royal guard.

    During that tenure in the guard, Anh met and quickly befriended Royyan, another warrior with lighter skin than the Barastos family and auburn hair. He was dashing, he was kind, and, as Anh told more and more stories about Henry’s paternal nature, he was intrigued to meet the man--

    “Anh,” Henry said, interrupting his brother as they stood by the front gate to the monastery. “For Light’s sake, you didn’t bring someone here just because he wanted to meet me?”

    “Of course I did!” Anh replied, grinning wide and wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “He’s only seventeen, Henry--that’s far too young a man for me to get involved with. Besides, that’d be awkward, seeing as we’re brothers-in-arms, and honestly he reminds me far too much of you in so many ways training that I’m not at all interested in him.”

    “You were interested in any other male,” Henry said, rolling his eyes.

    “They were different,” Anh said, blinking innocently. “If they were your friends, I knew they must be good at heart.”

    Anh strong-armed him over to the gate, and Henry laid eyes on Royyan Smith.

    The young man there wasn’t at all impressive in his appearance; he wore the same set of dull, worn plate that the rest of the guards-in-training wore, but he’d draped his dark cloak about it just so and the curves of the fabric arched down his shoulder and back in a quite-pleasing fashion. He turned around, hearing the gate, and his eyes--a similar blue to Henry’s--were just as dazzling as the priest’s. His hair was in a short braid laying along his shoulder, and he had just enough bristly facial hair to look ragged in a purposeful, dangerous fashion. Nothing about him should’ve worked, and yet he made Henry lose complete track of his mind, only coming back to himself when Anh said his name--introducing the two.

    Royyan bowed, and Henry did likewise, unsure if he could let in a complete outsider to the monastery grounds; Anh could get in just because he was family--

    A sudden tremor rocked the earth, and Henry’s eyes widened. A magnetic wave tugged him back, and he turned without another word, sprinting back to the courtyard. He knew what that pull was--

    In the courtyard, one of the priests, a brash git named Biedt was cowering away from young Kanhya. The ground shuddered under her rage, and darkness rippled over her skin, encasing her in fury looking at the young robed man. The other priests came running, but stopped, aghast, watching--

    Henry was the only one who kept running, stopping himself between the two figures and kneeling to look eye to eye with Kanhya.

    “Look at me, sweetie--look at me, Kanhya. Kanhya? Kanhya, _look at me!_ ”

    The girl jerked her head to him sharply, and it was all he could do not to tense backwards. He relaxed, putting a hand in hers.

    “Hey--hey there. Easy. Easy, Kanhya; whatever he said, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. However mean he is, that doesn’t matter, and I’ll deal with him, but you’re going to breathe, all right? Let’s breathe together, c’mon; in through your nose, out through your mouth. There we go, sweetie, very good; there we go, in-- out-- in… out… bring it back, Kanhya, just reel it on back in… very good, very good, sweetie; in… out… wonderful, you’re doing great; you’re doing absolutely fantastic…”

    The Shadow subsided, and Kanhya, sniffling and frowning, hugged her small arms around his head tight. Henry held her, soothing, petting her hair.

    “I’ve got you; we’re okay, you’re fine, there’s nothing wrong at all, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

    Kanhya finally settled, letting go of him and rubbing her eyes.

    “What’d he say, darling?”

    “He c-called me a freak,” she said. “He s-said my mommy was a dumb bitch. He s-said it’s better if I don’t ever meet her.”

    “Shh,” Henry said, petting her hair. “That doesn’t matter, sweetheart; I’ll deal with him. You go on in; Anne will get you a warm cup of milk, won’t you Anne?”

    Henry looked up at one of the older female priests, who hurriedly nodded and collected the girl, moving her out of the courtyard.

    As soon as she was out of eyesight, Henry’s face fell to stone, and he turned to Biedt, who had gotten to his feet and was trying to brush dignity back onto himself and dirt off. Henry started towards him.

    Biedt glanced up. “What? The little bitch proved my point; she is a fr--”

    The CRACK! of Biedt’s jaw against Henry’s fist filled the air, and the man reeled back into the dirt again in pain. Henry straddled him, bringing his fist down again-- again-- smashing his head against the dirt and pebbles.

    As quickly as his physicality came, it ended, but his rage didn’t. He grabbed Biedt by the throat, dragging his bloodied head off the ground.

    “If you _ever_ \--” Henry spat down, “ _EVER_ call that little girl or her mother anything cruel ever again, I will cut out your fucking tongue.”

    Henry dropped him to the soil again and moved off of him, stalking inside to make sure Kanhya had gotten her milk. The other priests slowly moved to Biedt’s side, healing him but letting him yelp every so often without anesthesia.

    On the sidelines, the two warriors had watched it all.

    Anh blinked. “I never thought he had it in him,” he murmured.

    Royyan closed his mouth, trying to subdue a blush over his features. “I think I’m in love.”

    I’m mentioning this because it introduces faces that will return--and because Kanhya’s Shadow would be set loose later while Henry left as a medic for Northrend. He fought in a few battles--even garnered a reputation as something like the “Shadow’s White Light” or something akin to that--are you all right?

 

Kas paused. Samantha, who had been giggling to herself over Royyan’s comment, had suddenly turned pale.

“The White Wolf of Shadow,” she murmured.

Kas watched her closely. “That was it. Why?”

Samantha wordlessly turned down the oil lamp and turned over in bed. Kas watched her a long moment, then played with Xairestraszas until the whelpling went to bed as well. Outside, night had set in, and against the sound of waves, Kas laid back and tried to drift away.


	7. A Wolf in Kaskala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kas and Sam get to Kaskala, but someone else is already there...

Samantha Crow shuddered and clutched the sheets on the bed. The room had no light to see by, and the darkness was dragging her mind to the deepest core of terror that Northrend had to offer. Memories dragged her down into an icy abyss, where the White Wolf of Shadow was roaring and the twisted, decrepit chuckle of the Lich King breathed close on her ear–

A CRASH! rocked the world around her sleeping form, and she jolted awake with a strangled sound of emotion. She blinked in the darkness, rubbed her eyes, then leapt back to her senses, starting to her feet and growling.

Kas wasn’t there.

She dashed out of the room–

–into the blinding light of Northrend’s Borean Tundra. The morning sun was howling down its light to the fields of snow covering distant cliffs and her hand moved quickly to shield the reflection. The sound of yelling–deep voices, panicking–came to her ears, and she hissed for her eyes to adjust faster–

Kas’s voice came to her ears as well, barking orders along the ship to “GET CLOSER!” while others seemed to protest–

Sam blinked and opened her eyes more fully to the situation at hand.

The great turtle was thrashing not to get near the shore of Kaskala. The deep ice-blocks upon which the harbor was built were swarming with bodies, and the town beyond where they would’ve docked was in disarray. Samantha recognized the dark purple robes of the Twilight Cult–and the ebon scales of the Black Dragonflight. She grimaced, readying her daggers.

Hak’rala yelled out to his crew, then addressed Kas: “WE CANNOT RISK OUR SHIP, SMALL-MAN!”

“GET CLOSER SO I’M ABLE TO GET DOWN THERE WITHOUT SOAKING MYSELF!”

The captain started to say a retort but was cut off as the turtle lurched again, throwing half of the walrus-men off-balance and Sam almost into the frigid waters. Kas, his balance wondrous, leapt over to Hak’rala, grabbing the surprised tuskarr’s chest-scruff.

“Dammit, man, listen to me: I can and will kill every single bastard attacking your village, but I’m not risking my cargo to freezing!”

Xairestraszas rustled and wailed, muffled in the sling. The tuskarr glanced at the sling, frowning, then at the rogue, grunting and brushing his hand off and yelling out an order to his crew. The walrus-men scrambled around the deck but the turtle drifted closer to the ice.

Samantha narrowed her eyes, taking a few steps that burst into a sprint–and before Kas could jump to the ice, she leapt from the boat, vanishing into darkness in the middle of the air and reappearing behind her prey, an unlucky cultist with daggers slicing through his neck.

Kas paused a moment, surprised, then jumped from the ship’s side too, landing heavily on the ice flow and kneeling to it to regain his balance. Xairestraszas flailed in alarm and tumbled out, falling against the ice and slipping, squealing as the ice broke around him and searingly cold water drenched his scales. The fracture spread underneath Kas, and the heavier rogue fell through the ice into the water, gasping in pain as the shock numbed his system. Xairestraszas screeched and went under fully–

Kas grabbed the scrawny whelpling, hoisting it ashore before it could cascade down any further into the cold ocean. The tiny lizard shivered and whimpered, looking around the ice, a spot of red on the cold light blue–

“RED WHELPLING!”

The deep voice of a wyrmguard of the Black Dragonflight boomed out over the expanse, and the fighting stopped long enough for Kas to watch the heads of every creature there jerk around wildly to see him, trapped in the water next to the helpless babe.

“Shit–”

He grabbed at the ice, heaving his freezing body to the shore and trying to find traction, a huge wyrmguard lumbering his way, ax cleaving through the air–

Kas scrambled and got to his feet, hissing and shutting his eyes and grabbing Xairestraszas under his belly, hoisting the babe up roughly into the crook of his arm against his wet chest-piece, fumbling for a dagger–

The wyrmguard yelped and stumbled and crashed into the ice with a dying gurgle, Samantha riding its back down and tearing her daggers out from its neck with a wet spray of dark blood. Despite the adrenaline, Kas shivered hard, teeth chattering, and the female rogue paused, watching him.

“You can sit this one out, Fuzzy; I’ll deal with it.”

“F-F-Fuck no,” Kas managed to say, pulling out one dagger and growling. “Th-They want the wh-whelpling, th-that’s my business.”

Sam raised a brow. “Mine’s keeping you safe.”

“Then let’s kill th-them all f-f-f-f-fast and I can get a d-damn blanket.”

Sam grinned. “Fair enough.”

She vanished away again, and one of the advancing cultists suddenly jerked off to one side with a scream, clutching at their back. Another two sprinted towards Kas, and he gripped the wailing dragon tighter, dashing towards them–

One raised a sword, but Kas side-stepped expertly, driving his dagger through the cultist’s temple. The other slashed at the rogue with a curving, serrated halberd–

Kas grunted, brushing it aside with his shoulder and spinning, driving the dagger down into the man’s forearm and dragging himself forward, burying the blade into the assailant’s neck. The man spluttered in surprise but Kas snarled, rushing forward and pushing the corpse down, gaining ground in the battlefield to not be cornered–

Samantha was a marvel of blades and shadows, disappearing and reappearing with such speed and grace that even Kas, in his sightless tracking, couldn’t keep up with her. She never strayed far from him, but worked on those attacking the tuskarr natives first, slashing them down so that the walrus-people had a better chance of survival–and of ganging up on the next one–

A wyrmguard blind-sided Kas in the chaos and the frigidity of his present senses, bowling him over to the ice. He curled his body around Xairestraszas, impacting hard, and the sheet under him cracked and threatened to give way, but it was tougher inland than the shore. The wyrmguard straddled him quickly, ebon claw raised to carve through his arm to the screeching whelpling–

There was a BOOM! of energy and a seething roar that shook the battlefield. Samantha caught a cultist in the back, slicing up his form, turning to see–

–the wyrmguard, sailing away with a streak of blood trailing behind it, its throat dark crimson. The body crashed to the ground, twitching, and where it had been thrown–

A tall, broad-chested tan worgen stood, wet fur matted down, cradling Xairestraszas in one lumbering arm, the other poised with long, vicious claws dripping with the wyrmguard’s blood. Kas quickly stooped, grabbing the dagger in his over-sized paw, tucking it back in its sheath and drawing back to his full, imposing height, a low growl rippling out through the ice flow.

“Huh,” Samantha said to no one in particular. “Big fuzzy boy.”

She side-stepped a charging cultist, wrapping her arm around the woman’s neck and slitting her throat, sending her spinning to the ground dead.

Two wyrmguards charged Kas, and the worgen snarled, baring cruel fangs. Sam charged after the last assailant on the villagers, tackling the wyrmguard’s legs out from under it. It fell, but before she could capitalize on that, it kicked her square in the chest, sending her rolling away with a grunt but no bad bruise–

Kas ducked under one halberd swing, ripping his claws along the wyrmguard’s ribs, but the twisted plate armor prevented anything save sparks. Kas wasted no time, pouncing forward and slamming a shoulder into the seething guard, knocking it off-balance and snapping his jaws up to try and catch its neck–

The other speared Kas’s arm, trying to loosen his grip on the whelpling. Kas grunted, tightening his grip on the babe and pushing away the first guard with a desperate slash along its face–just a glancing blow, but he’d take it–and turned his sights on the second, batting away the halberd–

The second hissed in glee, slicing at him and catching his cheek before he could duck away, getting enough time to dart in and grab at Xairestraszas–

Kas flipped a foot between the guard’s legs, and the wyrmguard let out a wheezing yelp: no armor would cover that pain–the worgen roared and brought his claws down, tearing away the scaly throat and turning back to the first–

The first brought the flat part of the blade around to Kas’s knee–no time to reposition it to cut through the joint instead–buckling it badly and causing the wolf to yelp and crash to the ice. Kas curled up, snarling, protective over Rhea’s child and twisting to meet the attacker–

The wyrmguard jerked and stopped, spluttering, then fell over limp, Samantha pulling her blade from its neck with a hum and cleaning the weapon off. There were no more sounds of battle–the tuskarr murmured, but otherwise the wind blew threw, quiet and bitterly cold.

Kas rolled over and got up, hissing and wincing at the new aches and doubling up in shivers as the adrenaline started to fade from his almost-frozen form. Xairestraszas whimpered in his grasp, and a large tuskarr woman came over, puffing on a pipe. She moved by Sam without a glance, going to the shivering worgen and held out a hand for the whelpling.

Kas glanced at her, snarling and drawing his child closer against his sopping wet clothes. The babe whined, and both shivered hard. Samantha cleared her throat, noting the feathers adorning the tuskarr woman’s shirt-collar–

“Kas. She’s a shaman; let her.”

Kas still growled low. Samantha blinked, pausing and hoping that the fur-ball wasn’t feral. That possibility hadn’t crossed her mind; surely feral worgen were all taken care of when the Gilneans came over–but no; some had still come into Darkshire–

The shaman made a few signs with her hand, took the pipe from her mouth, then blew a gust of sweet smoke into the wolf’s face. Kas paused, still shivering, then passed out.

 

<*>                    <*>                    <*>

 

Slowly, he woke. It was dark, save a fire nearby–

He sat up, wincing, and a slender hand stopped him. Kas paused, getting a sense of himself–shirtless (no, completely naked), human form, sore but healed–and looked into the face of the none-too-pleased Samantha Crow.

“Where’s the whelpling?”

“Down, boy.”

Kas looked around the small circular tent he was in: a warm fire was crackling, smoke going up out of the top, and the tent flaps were still open to let in a breeze from the night outsi–

Samantha forced him to lie back, and he did, grunting. He sighed, looking at her.

“Where’s the whelpling?”

“With the shaman. He’s been fed and the shaman is more used to dragons; apparently some young ones visited once or twice so she knows how to play with them and let them stretch their wings without going far. It’s also got a cold because you insisted on jumping down and fighting, so we’ll be here until the shaman gives your kid a clean bill of health.”

Kas watched her with cool eyes. “Would you have preferred the village die out to nihilistic bastards?”

Sam crossed her arms. “Not really, but it’s not our mission here.”

Kas shook his head slightly and looked away.

“I was going to deal with it; you could’ve stayed put,” she continued, then, seeing he shut his eyes in an attempt to block her out, “Fine: what’s done is done. We’re here another day at most. Whatever.”

The conversation lulled into uncomfortable silence, save the crackle of the fire. Kas opened his eyes, glancing outside.

“What’s the time?”

“Late. I got to watch your pretty ass sleep all day–are you safe to be around?”

Kas raised a brow. “I’m a killer.”

“That’s not what I goddamn meant, Kaskaeld Remor. Are you a fucking feral I’ll need to put down?”

Kas looked at her sharply. “You know Henry Barastos; you’ve _dealt_ with worgen before–”

“Yes, I have!” she said, voice raising dangerously for a moment. “I damn well have. I’ve dealt with them here; I’ve dealt with Gilneans too who’ve been turned, and I can tell you that it’s rather disconcerting to look at someone you’ve trusted to have your back and see a towering savage dog, ready to rip your heart out. I know there’s some who can control that–I’ve heard most Gilneans can if they were treated by the Night Elves that went to your aid, but I don’t have time to wait in your life-story to get to that part, Kas! Yes or no: you’re a feral?”

“No,” he said, watching her with a steel face, defensive and vulnerable in his fur sleeping-bag.

“Well you damn well seemed like one.”

“I was in _battle_ ,” Kas said, slow and icy, “trying to keep safe myself and a whelpling entrusted to me by an angel I didn’t deserve. I also had a lot of aggression at the two factions that put me and her through Hell in the Badlands and took her from me prematurely; sorry if that came off as ‘feral’ to you, but that form is strong, it’s fast, it’s deadly. I’m more than capable of talking in worgen form; of walking and smiling and showing every etiquette of high-society, but I don’t choose to stay looking like that because, even if I can fade into the shadows, I can’t hope to fade away into a crowd looking like that. I’ll still be a monster and a freak; people will just see it better then.”

He nestled back against the pillows, turning his face away angrily, but Sam could see in his eyes the glisten of emotion. She watched him a long moment in the quiet of the night then glanced outside, up at the stars and the borealis. The sight should’ve been beautiful, but she shuddered and turned back to him.

“Kas–” she paused and let out a huff. “Fuck–I’m not going to deal with you. Not when you’re being all ‘hurt-puppy-dog’ pissy. We’re dealt a bad hand of cards; suck it up. You’re here, you’re warm, and your dragon kiddo is still alive. And you’re only going to be a monster and a freak if you don’t tell the world ‘fuck you: this is what I am’ and just live with it in full view to all. They can’t hold against you what you own.”

She moved over to the other side of the fire, where another sleeping bag lay waiting. “Tomorrow, since we’ll be stuck here, you’re continuing your story. I don’t want to deal with you anymore today. Goodnight.”

Kas glanced across the fire, but she was facing away. He watched her, face trembling, then mumbled “goodnight” and curled up to sleep.


	8. When A Tender Soul Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having to wait the day out for Xairestraszas to get better, Kas tells Sam of his 16th birthday and what drove him to snap against the Underground.

Kas woke up with the sun shining in on him. The air was brisk outside the comfort of his sleeping-furs, and he curled up in the ball of fuzzy warmth and started to lull back to bed. A jolt of memory brought him back awake again, and he looked sharply around for Sam.

She was up already, sitting by the tent flaps bundled up neatly in her traveling-cloak. She glanced around at the noise he made, then looked back out with disinterest.

“Morning, Fuzzy.”

“Time?”

“Mid-morning or so.” Her voice was nonchalant, and outside, Kas could hear the lively bustle of the town.

“Xairestraszas?”

“No update I’ve heard.”

Kas grunted and started to get up, the cold air seared against his bare skin. He shivered and lay back down quickly, trying not to lose the precious heat.

“Your clothes’ll be dry around afternoon.”

“Great,” he said, without much sincerity to his voice.

“Not _my_ fault they’re wet.”

“Samantha,” Kas said, voice cold.

“Just ‘Sam,’ please,” she replied, similarly icy--then she paused, standing in the tent and holding open a flap.

A tuskarr came in, smaller than the rest and with shorter tusks. His face was bright and smooth; a youth, and his eyes were animated as they looked over the exotic small-folk. Feathers poked out from his collar: the lad was a shaman-in-training.

“Hello,” Sam said, smiling pleasantly but with a brisk air about her. The tuskarr lad glanced her way and composed himself back from his initial excitement, doubling over in a curt bow to her then another to Kas.

“Teacher--Oach’ana wanted me to tell that your little friend is recovering well,” the lad said with a thick accent. “He got a shock badly to his young system but it maybe was far worse. Since his fire in his breast is not yet developed, he could not handle the cold water well, or the wind with its ice. Oach’ana says he should be healthy by morning tomorrow and you may go take him to the Queen Dragon again.”

Kas nodded. Sam cleared her throat. “If I may--why was the village being attacked?”

The lad looked at her and nodded his head to show he understood, then thought a moment on language. “You arrived after you should’ve,” he said finally. “Here were Dragons with red scales and they left before you. The invaders came to look for our visitors but they were gone. They visited because Oach’ana saw you coming but they left because of invaders back at their home. I’m sorry the meeting couldn’t time out well.”

Samantha Crow mumbled a curse but nodded, smiling to the lad. The lad looked expectantly between them then, seeing they gave no indication they wanted his company further, bowed again and said they’d be getting lunch soon, before turning and leaving them. Sam shut the tent flaps and laid down on her sleeping furs, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Could’ve been over already,” she mumbled.

“That one’s not on me,” Kas said, watching her. She glanced over at him and grunted an agreement, looking back up lazily at nothing.

“You’ve got a full day of story-telling, Kas.”

Kas sighed inwardly and cleared his throat. “S’pose I do.”

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    Two years passed in uneasy silence. Kelleniana stayed in her solitary home at the Gilnean shoreline, near deep woods where even the hunters feared to tread. Rumors amassed of the things she conjured, but King Genn flatly refused his Lords to indulge their curiosities and see her. Only one person was allowed to go and bring her whatever groceries she might need: an old, blind man by the name Teris, who secured the position by pointing out to King Genn that he wouldn’t be long for this world anyway and he had knowledge of demonology himself, and thus would not be afraid of whatever Kelleniana had conjured.

    Teris, upon returning from his trips, said politely that Nazwena was there and refused the spread of much information, but did allow him to tell of what supplies Kelleniana would need. There was a biweekly trip made ever since Kell’s house had been constructed and Teris was appointed her ambassador to the world, wherein the old man brought food, water, and herbs. The girl apparently asked for little, and so whenever she wanted a hoe for gardening or a book or clothing, it was procured without complaint.

    During those two years, Kanhya grew, and the priests around her remained pleasant to her eyes but scared to Henry’s. He found few friends in their ranks, and whenever the High Priest found him alone in the halls, he spoke in anxious tones about how Henry’s student was handling herself. Henry replied in placid remarks on her skill and her discipline--for Kanhya indeed exhibited both, as well as a jubilant streak of youthful energy--but the answers never seemed to satisfy.

    Yaranh came frequently, bringing with him Royyan and Royyan’s two youngers sisters, Ellanora and Gabrielle. The girls found a playmate in Kanhya, and the three spent countless afternoons rushing madly about the courtyard while Henry got a chance to collapse into a chair and doze. Royyan, prompted on to boldness by his commander--Henry’s bemused older brother--grew accustomed to pulling the sleeping priest’s head back from an awkward angle over the back of the chair down onto a pillow set in Royyan’s lap. He even grew bold enough to brush back the strands of black hair covering Henry’s face.

    During those two years, Tanlia Mason grew from a young adult to a skilled woman, working directly under the matron of the brothel. By day, the matron taught her the art of subtlety and self-defense, and Tanlia became one of the most agile, skilled blades-women Gilneas had to offer. By night, she mastered sensuality and manipulation, as well as taking under her wing the new girl placed there by the Underground, a young pretty creature with striking red hair like the man that had upended Tanlia’s life. The Underground men came to check on her frequently, and paid the matron quite a lot of gold to house her. Though the matron detested them, they were good with payment.

    Kaskaeld worked in vicious silence during these years, and Garrett had few reasons to complain about his prize student. Their training in the basement had led to a few cruel bruises from Kas and far less from Garrett. The elder rogue was pleased, and even with their surrounding team not viewing him all that trustworthy--mute as he usually remained--they found his skills quick and dependable. None bothered him when he dozed between missions, for he was a rare case; a person more dangerous with his eyes closed than open. They didn’t speak about him in the same room, but they still scoffed. The boy had far more missions of stealth and listening than of killing, after all; how dangerous could he be if he wasn’t given a carte blanche to kill?

    And yet, Sofia--the most level-headed and smooth of Garrett’s clump of rogues--pointed out, the reputation of the Ghost of Gilneas was growing at a magnificent rate. Kaskaeld’s ability to worm his way into the most private places to learn secrets; his ability to hide away in the shadows of plain sight, was almost unparalleled, save Garrett. The nobles feared to do business, and some even used the threat of turning the Ghost on their competitors to get better deals. Garrett had sent Kas out to put a stop to that personally, and those were the few times he was let kill, unless the businessman was truly worth keeping.

    “Bah,” Prous grumbled, a swashbuckler-looking fellow, taking a huge drink of ale that was more than he’d accounted for, setting it down and wiping the residue from his mustache and his mutton chops, “reputation or not, he’s a kid. He’s got angst. He’s not staying long if he doesn’t stop glaring all the damn time.”

    “He’s turning into quite a big kid,” remarked Karose, a wiry man who had a habit of looking disinterested in everything. “He’s been with us almost seven years, now.”

    “And before that, in the arena for a full year,” said Hugh, setting down his cards on the table since they evidently weren’t continuing their game. Sure, they’d talk about some stupid little boy when _I_ have a chance at all the chips, but when I chat it turns into shut up and play, Hugh. “Come to think of it, it’s almost his birthday, innit?”

    “Ooh!” Sofia said, eyes lighting up. “What’ll we get him, hm?”

    Hugh snorted. “Get him a set of white deermane armor. Let’s really see if he’ll blend in wearing that.”

    The room stopped and laughed, even the skeletal Karose.

    “I suppose,” the thin figure commented mildly, “we could outfit the boy with new daggers too; not that training bullshit he still has from Garrett--”

    “No, Garrett said he’d already get the boy those,” Prous said, setting his head on one meaty hand. “Do we have to get him anything?”

    “Aw, of course we do!” Sofia said, draping herself on him. “C’mon, Prous, I can see it in your eyes that you’ve got some soft spot under all that meat.”

    Prous grunted. “Not soft, Sofia, dear.”

    Sofia scoffed and pulled away. “How dare you; I’m a _lady_!”

    “You fuck anything with a pulse, Sofia,” Hugh said, tapping his fingers impatiently for Raina, their final member, a quiet and unassuming gray-haired beast, to make her damn move with her cards. She seemed to be reveling in his impatience though.

    “Hm,” Prous said. “That’s a thought…”

    “Sofia,” Raina said, glancing up with her usual falsely-doddering tone, “perhaps we and Hugh could get him that set of armor? And let Bony and Meaty find something else?”

    “I know what I’m getting him,” Prous said with a slow grin.

    “Oh?” Karose said, drawling. “Do tell.”

    “I’m getting the boy a woman. He’s going to become a proper man.”

    The table blinked at him, but Prous grinned and downed the rest of his ale, ordering their old hag friend to play her cards already. The gears were tightening in Kaskaeld’s life with misery and villainy running rampant, and his sixteenth birthday would prove to be the key that wound him up too far, until all the grand machinery the Underground had built up would finally, painfully, viciously explode:

 

<Kaskaeld Remor’s Story, Continued>

    The day Kaskaeld turned sixteen, Garrett was away at work. The young man woke up, eyes dull, and prepared himself for the typical day. He did his usual calisthenics; he dressed himself in his leathers and put his daggers away; he opened his door--

    Sofia stood there, smiling, holding out a letter and a package.

    “Boss had these for you. Heard it’s a special day; happy birthday, kiddo.”

    Kas took them without emotion, nodding and going back to the desk in his cramped little room. He opened the letter first:

    “Kaskaeld,

    “Go to Baron Ashbury’s manor. He’s expecting company--determine what they’re there for. If it’s an affair: typical steps for blackmail. If it’s business, take mental notes and tell Gibb as always. We’ll go from there.

    “The package is your present. Happy birthday. You’ve now been with us half your life.

    “Garrett.”

    Kas put the letter down and opened up the package, pulling out two new silver daggers with dazzling blue wraps along the hilts. He paused, looking them over, then put them in the place of his training daggers with their tired, rusting blades.

    Sofia smiled at the boy, his auburn hair long and shaggy, his face unkempt with the fuzz of a lad that hasn’t yet shaven for the day. She cleared her throat, holding out another, larger package.

    “From your team.”

    Kas moved over to her and took it, opening it, pulling out the pieces of white leather armor. White deermane. He glanced at her.

    Sofia smiled benignly. “Most expensive we could find; easy to move around in and still pretty tough. Besides--ghosts dress in white, don’t they?”

    Kas watched her, then nodded slightly, shutting the door and changing, coming out ten minutes later feeling utterly foolish and looking impossible to miss. Sofia beamed, biting back a roar of laughter that the boy would be subtle in that attire.

    Kas moved by her and went on with his day. Baron Ashbury did indeed have a guest, and they talked in long hours over volumes of nothing, just being old friends. The hours rolled by, and Kas, who had snuck in through a window and laid down in the rafters of the mansion where he could maneuver over each room and follow, finally left when the guest did and Ashbury curled up by the fire with a book.

    When he got back, Karose was standing in front of his door, smiling his odd, bony smile.

    “Kaskaeld. Happy birthday. Nice armor.”

    Kas said nothing, covered head to toe in the white leather, taking off his white silk mask.

    “Everyone wanted to celebrate; would you come with me?”

    Karose didn’t say it as a question, his smile threatening to pounce off his cheeks. Kas watched him a moment then looked away at nothing dully and nodded.

    “Good; come on.”

    Karose led him down the hall, going down and out and down the street to one of the beautiful little shacks lent out by the Matron to brothel customers. Kas didn’t recognize it, and stood silent and tense, not trusting a new building. Sure--he’d done nothing wrong in the past years; he’d passed every small test with flying colors and completed each mission without a complaint--but they could still be trying to screw him over.

    He went shyly in.

    Prous roared a greeting, standing up with beer dribbling down his beard, moving over and clapping a huge arm around his shoulder. “HE’S HERE! The lad’s here--happy birthday, you great tombstone of a fellow--C’MON OUT, GALS!”

    Karose smirked, locking the door and moving over to Raina, who was sitting in one corner with a bemused smile, kneeling by her and kissing her legs. Sofia had cuddled herself up against Hugh quite close on a loveseat, and both watched the young idiot in all white turn just as pale as his armor. Prous grinned, baring his teeth like a set of shotgun shells stacked together in their box, and held Kas tight to look on at their guests.

    Coming down the stairs, three mature women, their tops nowhere to be found, eyeing their prey with a smirk. Kas the boy looked away but Prous shook him hard, laughing and forcing his eyes back towards them. The women smiled, watching him with coy sweetness--giggling seeing his anxiety but pausing seeing the true look of repulsion and pain in his face.

    Kaskaeld Remor was, as Garrett knew and as his team had guessed, a romantic at heart. He was a tender painter; a smiling tailor; a soft and gentle lover inwardly, calloused over with the business of a rogue but not toughened fully yet. The idea of losing himself to such impassionate smilers--to apathetic, paid bodies--was a twisted knife in his heart.

    He turned away hard, worming out of Prous’s grip--the man heaved him back, huge and strong, especially with drink. “There now, lad; where are you going? You’re missing the most glorious sight in Azeroth: a woman’s bountiful--”

    Kas writhed away again, and Prous growled, gripping him tight and shaking him.

    “Stop acting like a damn cat, boy. They’re my present to you; be grateful.” His tone softened. “We’re buddies, aren’t we? You don’t want to hurt my feelings?”

    Kas still stared wildly around. The women glanced at Prous, shifting uneasily. One stepped closer, voice alluring: “we’re really not that scary--”

    Kas hissed and twisted away hard, yanking on Prous’s arm and rushing back to the door. Prous yelped and grit his teeth: the other rogues sat up, attentive now. The women glanced around, starting to realize their present situation, starting to slip to the backdoor--

    Prous turned to them, huffing. “Go up. Stay put. Double pay.”

    The women eyed him coldly but turned and went upstairs.

    Prous turned back to Kas, seething, as the boy tried the locked door. The handle wouldn’t budge, and before Kas had time to pick the lock, Prous was upon him, a meaty hand gripping his shoulder tight.

    “Stay put, boy,” Prous growled, then, lowering his tone: “unless you want me to grab your sister and add her in to the bunch.”

    Kas reeled around, right fist connecting square with Prous’s nose and breaking it in. The man roared back, tearing up as blood dribbled down into his mustache, and the other four sprang to action, covering the distance in a heartbeat and slamming the writhing boy in against the door. Prous snarled, coming back in and slamming a punch into Kas’s gut, doubling the lad over in a wheeze. The rogues held him up again.

    Prous looked him over, scowling, batting away Sofia as she came up to dab a towel to his nose. He looked to Hugh and Karose, holding Kas’s arms and blocking his legs, then to the boy himself and his seething brown-red eyes.

    “Turn him around and get his fucking shirt off.”

    Prous spat, wiping his blood on his arm, and the other rogues did as he said, turning Kas around against the door, fumbling with the deermane but stripping off his top. Prous unbuckled his thin belt and took it off, wrapping the end of leather around his hand and letting the buckle clink down to the floor.

    “Don’t want to sully your pretty body, boy? Fine. I’ll do it for you.”

    Prous raised his arm, and before anyone in the room had time to interject, cracked the whip-like belt down over Kas’s back.

    Kas let out a wheezing yelp, body jerking, a lash of red breaking along his skin and a deep welt starting where the buckle hit. Hugh started to say something but Prous brought his arm back again, cracking through the air-- again-- again-- the room silent save the leather and metal whipping down, connecting against skin; the spasm of Kas’s body against the door-- Time slowed to a crawl and Prous continued, eyes vicious, all the strength in his body going towards maiming the young rogue’s back--

    “--SIXTEEN!” CRACK! Kas jerked against the door then fell back again, shaking, his back lacerated and swelling red. Prous stepped back, admiring the handiwork, throwing his belt aside and moving to the stairwell. “One for every miserable year. Happy fucking birthday: throw him out.”

    Hugh and Karose silently unlocked the door, opened it, and threw the boy out into the night and the rain, letting him crash into the mud, tossing out the armor they’d stripped off too. Prous sneered, calling out:

    “We own this place, boy! We own the guards; we own the shops; we own everyone. So just wander on home and maybe someone will fix you up there! But we’ll find you if you run, and you’d damn well better believe we’ll take good care of Katia!”

    The door slammed.

    Kas struggled to breathe, his face half-submerged in the mud, his back in agony. He couldn’t stand--couldn’t bring himself to try--and he grabbed the armor, pulling it close as the other hand fumbled forward on the pavement stones, dragging him a few inches towards the refuge of his room. The rain, light as it was, pounded the open, fresh wounds, and he let out a low moan, tears streaming and blending in with the sky’s downpour.

    An hour later, he crawled into the front door of the manor housing him, delirious and soaking and filthy with mud and gore. Carana, the maid-woman and resident healer, looked him over without sympathy, hoisting him to his feet. Kas screamed in pain, but she didn’t care, bringing him to the bathroom on the first floor and making him stand still, hosing him off with a brutal spray and healing the surface wounds of his back.

    “It’ll scar,” she said apathetically, then he was released to go to his room.

    Garrett, upon coming in three hours after, found Prous passed out drunk and only Raina willing to talk about what had happened, the elder woman sitting placidly and knitting throughout the story like it was a regular occurrence. Garrett said nothing, gave no motion how he felt, then nodded and went up to see the boy.

    Kas’s room was pitch black. No candles were lit, and when Garrett opened the door he squinted to see in based on the hall’s lanterns. The bed was tidy. The desk was neat. The glimpse of white fur was over by the window, where the curtains were pulled back, and a silhouette sat in a chair in front of it looking out at the rainy night.

    Garrett stepped in, shutting the door. The light faded and died from the room, and all he could see in the dimness was the vague outline of a head faced away. The man took a breath and cleared his throat.

    “Kaskaeld.”

    “Hello, Garrett.”

    Garrett had never once shivered since he’d joined the Underground. Nothing had gotten under his skin; this boy was no exception--but something in his voice, quiet, calm, viciously uncaring, made the rogue’s muscles clench and twist. Kas barely spoke as it was--that he would now with such a tone--

    The tone of someone pushed too far, Garrett thought to himself. The tone of a killer, sitting and waiting. All the training he’d been given didn’t amount to anything; this was what broke that tender soul.

    Kas hadn’t even looked away from the window to speak.

    Garrett paused, taking a long breath and regarding his pupil carefully. There was no coming back from this: Kaskaeld Remor wasn’t going to fall back in line now. There was no point even suggesting the idea, much less trying.

    “Did Carana heal everything all right, Kas?” Garrett asked, keeping his voice even.

    “Hurts.”

    “I can imagine.”

    “Where’s my sister?”

    Garrett kept his breath even, moving over to the desk and leaning back against it, half-sitting, still watching Kas like a hawk.

    “I’m keeping her safe, Kas.”

    “Safe from who?”

    Garrett paused a moment then nodded. “That’s a good question, isn’t it?”

    “She’s at the brothel, isn’t she, Garrett?”

    Garrett paused again, hands drifting to the hilts of his daggers.

    “Yes.”

    “Just to be in the matron’s care, or to become a whore?”

    “I gave _explicit_ instructions, Kaskaeld, that she was there only to be cared for.”

    “But that threat’s there. Isn’t it, Garrett?”

    Garrett let out a sigh, looking away at the nothingness of the dim, empty room. “I’m rather angry with Prous myself, right now.”

    “I’m sure you are.”

    Garrett looked back to him. “Kas,” he said gravely, “I won’t stop you.”

    Kaskaeld finally turned in the chair, looking around at his teacher. Garrett tightened again--the bitter light from outside outlined his face, his eyes, cold and righteously seething. Cruel. The Underground had twisted him into an abomination.

    “I know you’re going to go after them,” Garrett continued calmly. “You have every right to kill them. I have every right to let you; they acted without my orders, they maimed you, they damaged the integrity of my word, regarding Katia. They’re boisterous and they’re lazy, and growing far too egotistical for me to keep them on.”

    “I won’t kill them for you,” Kas said quietly. “I’ll kill them for me.”

    Garrett nodded.

    “And then I’ll go to Carana. And then to the colosseum. And then to everyone else in this Underground. And then finally to you. I’ll leave you for last because I want them to know--I want them to know you’re the one responsible, Garrett. I’m going to kill every single one of them.”

    Garrett watched his steel gaze with a defensive relaxation, and, unable to match the boy’s intensity, finally looked down and nodded to himself.

    “I knew this would come,” Garrett said softly. “You weren’t the type to be one of us naturally; forcing you in would only go so far, and there’d be something that would break all the weight on your back.”

    Garrett took a deep breath and looked back up to him. “You kill my five, I won’t come for you. No one will. You kill anyone else in the Underground, that becomes my responsibility, just like you said, and I will come without mercy, boy. Even if you manage what you said, we’re not all knaves in the shadows; there’s sailors and armorers and royal guards and politicians. If you harm them, even if Genn Greymane finds out their ties, he’ll find out yours and hunt you down as part of this pact.

    “If you start this war, Kaskaeld, someone else will end it. There is no possible hope that you will survive.”

    “Then I’ll die,” the young man said simply, watching Garrett with piercing eyes.

    Garrett watched him, then bowed his head, turned, and went back to the door. “Gods grant you a swift death, Kaskaeld.”

    Garrett left.

 

A young tuskarr, bubbling with bright enthusiasm at the sight of visitors, interrupted the story to announce that there was supper for them--broiled fish with vegetables--and brought in a platter that could’ve served five.

“Let me know if you’ll need more--we tried to estimate what two small-folk will eat!” he said, handing skins of pure spring-water to both then exiting.

Kas and Sam ate in silence, the fire crackling merrily between them, a rich supply of logs in it enchanted to burn for far longer than normal. Kas carefully propped himself up to sitting, wrapping the fur blankets tight around his back and up over his head.

The meal was delicious and the portions ludicrous. They ate until they were full, then Sam politely got the young waiter-fellow’s attention, insisting that yes, that small amount was enough, and he bid them goodnight unless they wanted more food later.

She shut the tent flaps and looked to Kas expectantly. The night was still young; the stars outside had not fully regained their dominion over the fading sunlight. Kas smiled weakly--the recollection straining his battle-worn face--and the drifting firelight created a sweet sense of beauty among ugly scars.

Samantha shifted closer, opposite him, and he continued:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    Uneasily, life went back to normal. Outside the Underground, it was cheerful--people went about their ways, bustling too and fro without any alarm. Businesses flourished and floundered, children laughed with their parents, and there were even a few days where Gilneas didn’t rain and the sun peeked its shy, tender face through the cloud-cover.

    Inside the Underground, word had spread of Prous’s actions and, more especially, of the vicious young fighter from the ring that they’d pushed too far. The one--you know the one--the one people referred to as the Ghost of Gilneas. Bah, others replied, the Ghost was a myth even among us; a collaborative effort to put the powerful people of Gilneas in a vice-grip--no, it’s true, some murmured; we’ve seen the boy, dressed in all white armor with hair like fire.

    Kas, it seemed, was still let out to work, and for a quiet time, he gave the illusion that all was well. But Garrett knew what was coming: the boy was lulling his prey into thinking there’d be no repercussions. And when they were relaxed, he’d pounce without mercy.

 

<Kaskaeld Remor’s Story, Continued>

    Not two weeks later, Garrett’s five were sitting around their mansion with another group of amateur swindlers the Underground did business with. Prous was losing badly at poker while his comrades watched, Carana rebuking the teasing efforts of two of the swindlers to go elsewhere with them. Karose and Raina were pressed tight together, two bags of bones, and Sofia moved her way from Hugh’s side to drape over whichever man was winning in cards.

    The door opened quietly. They wouldn’t’ve noticed, in fact, except the blustering air outside grew louder for a moment then quieted again. They glanced around to see who it was.

    Just a quiet figure in white, head to toe. Just gliding through as ever, without words or emotion. A young Ghost.

    Prous grunted and looked through his hand. The swindlers looked at the arrival, perturbed, but went back to their business too. Nobody paid him any mind but everyone was there.

    Kas moved over to the fireplace, kneeling down in front of it and taking a breath. His deermane armor was drenched in rain, and the fire was warm--there’d be no reason to distrust that he didn’t go immediately upstairs, as he always did. His eyes were shut; enjoying the warmth, they thought. It’d be ridiculous to think he could hurt the room, with its even dozen trained rogues, with his eyes shut.

    After a moment, Karose got up from his perch on Raina’s lap and wandered over, smirking. “Nice armor, kid. The night’s still young enough to enjoy--you up for going out, finding a lass? Or staying in, keeping to yourself and being dull, hm?”

    He got no response, scoffed and nodded to himself, hands resting with lazy ego on his daggers.

    “Don’t poke at him,” Hugh called out lazily.

    Karose laughed. “Oh please, Hugh; the boy knows that he’s dead if he tries anything. And then there’s no real reason for Garrett to be so adamant about protecting his sister and we could bring her back here, hm? Maybe the boy _should_ try something, come to think of it!”

    “Maybe I should.”

    Karose blinked but before he could even register the words, Kas bolted up, daggers whirling out and impaling the thin rogue. Karose screamed, the force of the youth’s vengeful advance making him stumble back a few paces--Kas following with murderous intent behind his closed eyes, carving the daggers up and gutting the man, tearing through his chest and body and letting him spill out dead to the ground, dark crimson pooling around Kas’s boots and splashed along the white fur.

    The room stared in shock, then a panicked frenzy. The rogues roared and charged him--Raina, the closest, pulled out her blunderbuss with a frothing anger, but before she could fire off a shot the Ghost had darted to her, burying a dagger through her windpipe and tearing the blade away again without pause, turning to the next--

    One of the swindler’s reached him, a short-sword in hand slashing at his arm. Kas dodged it, curling in too close for the blade to reach and sinking his daggers into the man’s torso. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t there with Prous’s violence; he was doing business there with the Underground. He was a thief, a villain, and now yelling in pain and dying--

    Kas pulled back, kicking the soon-to-be-corpse into Hugh. Sofia screeched and tackled him, one of her daggers stabbing into his arm with the searing pain of a nerve toxin she doused her weapons with--but Kas snarled, turning and throwing her off into the wall, sending her crashing against the wood and the floor. Other swindlers rushed forward to him, their blades ricocheting off Kas’s expert daggers, untouchable--

    Carana hurled a glass at him, shattering against his side and knocking him off-balance. Sofia scrambled to her feet, grabbing him from behind--

    Kas roared and kicked away one of the oncoming swindlers, sprinting back and slamming Sofia into the wall again, loosening her grip with an elbow digging into her ribs and flailing, jamming a dagger behind him into her temple. She yelped and went still, slumping down--

    Hugh tackled him to the ground from the side, roaring bloody murder, knocking his daggers out of his grip, choking him with one hand and bringing his other down with two hard punches before Kas could kick him away. Hugh rolled, coming back to his feet and swinging a haymaker at the young bastard that had killed over half his team--

    Kas kicked his knee sideways and he fell with a yell of pain, getting a roundhouse to the side of his head sending him sprawling away dazed--

    A swindler slashed hard down the deermane behind Kas, leaving a thin slice of blood on his back, and Kas darted away, looking for his daggers or an impromptu weapon, so much stimuli to his ears that it was hard to focus without seeing--

    A blade came fast for his head and he pressed forward, headbutting the swindler it belonged to and barreling down through the assailant, gloved hands rolling and jamming his knuckles into targets all up the man’s chest, a last one smashing down into his trachea--

    The three remaining charged, and Kas charged back at them, getting to one quickly before the others could bring their blades down and tackling him around the waist, dropping him to the ground and sinking all his own weight into a forearm to the man’s throat--

    The other two slashed at him and he rolled forward out of the way--

    Prous grabbed him, a meaty hand closing around his throat. Kas wheezed and flailed, legs leaving the ground as Prous lifted him, smacking at his thick arm--

    Prous roared, smashing the young rogue down through the wooden table, breaking it in two.

    Kas coughed, dazed and trying quickly to collect himself--

    Prous grabbed his legs, turning and hurling him face-first into a wall. Kas barely had time to bring his arms up to brace and avoid a flat, broken nose, his ribs crushing against the hardwood and seething in pain. Prous panted wildly, looking him over, Hugh stumbling to his side along with the swindlers and Carana--

    Kas stumbled to his feet, back pressed on the wall, and Prous planted his foot in Kas’s solar plexus, sending him crashing through the wall and out into the rainy, muddy night.

    Kas wheezed, drenched under the downpour again and barely able to breathe as his mask soaked it in around his face. He curled up, trying to push past the fierce pain and back to his feet--

    Prous and the others followed him through the new hole in the wall, growling down at him. “Time for the Ghost to join the dead,” the hulking behemoth of a Gilnean spat out--

    Kas grabbed one of the cracked, jagged beams of wood, jamming it up into Prous’s belly.

    Prous screamed and clutched at it, doubling over in pain, Hugh roaring and slashing at Kas with Kas’s own daggers, picked up in the fray. The swindlers moved quickly in front of Prous as Carana started to heal the wound--

    Kas snarled, holding up his arms like a boxer and taking the slices to them, moving into Hugh’s space and punching the tendons in his shoulders. Hugh yelped, his grip on the daggers loosening, and Kas ripped them away from his hands--before he could grab them again for himself, Hugh threw a wild punch--Kas ducked and growled, fueled by adrenaline, darting up behind the rogue and clamping his arms around Hugh’s neck, staggering away with him as a meat shield. The swindlers paused, trying to get around him, but Kas staggered over to his daggers with Hugh, listening to the rogue’s choking breath--

    Kas’s arm ripped across Hugh, snapping his neck, and the Ghost kicked him forward into the attackers. The spare moment was all he needed, ducking down into the mud and grabbing his blades again, charging the bewildered swindlers--

    He caught one in the neck, the second too, the third dodged only for Kas to bury the blade with precision between his ribs in his heart.

    Prous snarled in pain, Carana having quickly healed the dangerous wound, bringing out his swords and slashing at Kas. Lightning pounded, and Kas jumped back quickly, the longer blades still slashing along the top of his thigh. Prous charged him like a mad bull, Carana behind ready to heal; Kas parried in desperation, quickly backtracking but losing ground--he’d soon hit another wall--soon be overwhelmed--

    Kas saw an opening and darted forward, ducking and carving both blades into one of Prous’s knees. Prous screamed again, collapsing down without the joint, and before Carana could move forward Kas climbed his body like a mountaineer, the blades sinking into Prous’s belly, his chest, his collarbone. Prous gurgled, eyes wide in disbelief, and the furious image of the Ghost of Gilneas was the last he saw before Kas heaved the man over, pressing his face down into the mud. Prous flailed, weaker and weaker, and fell still.

    Carana turned and sprinted, but Kas stood, head pounding, hoisted a dagger up into the edges of his fingers, and flung it expertly into the back of her head.

    The rain poured down.

    Word spread within the hour, since the swindlers had missed their appointment. The Underground teemed with rumors and nerves and anger, and only Garrett knew the truth. He pounded his fist down for silence among the crowd of higher-ups, telling them all that had happened in his usual calm tones and that he’d take full responsibility. In fact, he said, he’d be going hunting now.

    Before their thoughts reached his ears, Garrett went out.

    Kas wasn’t invincible--he’d be hurting, Garrett knew, and the best place to heal would be outside the city. There were too many in the city that had ties to the Underground--even under the care of the brothel matron. And, Kas had probably gone there first and found out Garrett’s little secret. The master rogue smiled grimly to himself.

    He was right about both things, finding Kas’s white and red form limping in the moonlight by the cliffs outside Gilneas City, trying to find refuge. Garrett gripped his daggers tight, watching him--and, slow and sure, Kas paused and turned, bleeding and barely able to stand, to face his teacher.

    “I attacked Karose,” Kas said, voice a ragged husk, struggling just for breath. “They attacked me.”

    “You would’ve attacked them anyway,” Garrett said coldly.

    Kas watched him a moment then nodded. “Yes. Where’s my sister?”

    “It doesn’t matter now.”

    “WHERE IS SHE?!” Kas roared at him, staggering forward, unsheathing a dagger and holding it in a trembling grip, his other hand clutching severely damaged ribs.

    Garrett watched him in silence, his blades ready.

    “She’s not at the brothel. You took her away.”

    “Yes, I did. After Prous mouthed off: I found somewhere better for her.”

    “All I wanted-- All I wanted was to keep her safe. Safe from you. You and these evil people, Garrett--” Kas stumbled forward again, closer, the moonlight silhouetting him, making him look like a struggling undead wretch taking its first steps. “ _I never wanted this!_ ”

    “Nor did I,” Garrett said simply, a pang of grief cutting through his stoic tone. “I really didn’t, Kaskaeld. But I have a job to do.”

    Quicker than Kas could realize, Garrett speared him through the chest. The youth spluttered, flailing with his dagger, and the master rogue grabbed the weapon, sheathing it calmly back in place. Kas’s breath wheezed out of him, and he clutched at Garrett’s arms--

    The master rogue pushed him forward, embedding him further to the hilt.

    Kas moaned in pain, blood coursing down his chest--

    Garrett pushed him forward again, fierce, and Kas stumbled back, the ground giving way and he saw the edge of the cliff moving quickly up, up, away--he thought he saw a glimmer of tears in Garrett’s eyes in the moonlight--

    The thunder of water crashing around him filled his ears; the ocean enveloping him, and he slowly sank lower beneath the waves, vision fading without any power left to survive.

<*>                    <*>                    <*>

    “Is he going to live?”

    “I’m not sure yet, Tanny. This’ll be most of the night.”

    “Right. Naz, baby, could you look after her while she heals? Don’t let her overexert if he’s just a lost cause--I gotta try and get some shut-eye.”

    “Of course I can.”

    Kas’s eyes flickered open weakly, and he thought he could make out the shapes of women in dim candlelight. One, a sweet child’s face with sharp green eyes and long auburn hair, looked into his.

    “Oh no, no, no; you sleep for now. It’ll be much easier that way.”

    She blew a powder into his face and he passed into dark slumber again.

 

Kas paused, looking over at Samantha. Her face was worn with the simple exhaustion of a now-long day. Outside, the sounds of the tuskarr had faded hours ago, and the sound of waves lulled alongside the crackling fire.

“We should probably sleep,” he murmured.

Samantha blinked at him and then grunted, stretching out on her fur and standing, wincing and moving her joints. “Probably should.”

A hard gust of wind blew through the tent flaps, exposing the brilliant stars and the powerful aurora borealis danced in green and purple above in the dark blue. Kas paused, shifting about to look at it--

Samantha shut the flaps tight, securing them for the night, eyes down away from the sight. She moved quietly back to her makeshift bed, crawling under the blankets of fur.

Kas watched her wearily. “Sam?”

“Mm?”

“You gonna ever tell me why you don’t like it, here?”

She glanced at him, searching his gaze. He wasn’t trying to get information to use against her--wasn’t in it for something. In the firelight, she saw what Garrett saw: a tender, caring soul that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was now hardened with so many years of scars.

But he was neither dead, nor cruel. There was still kindness dancing in those firelit eyes.

Samantha curled up, turning away. “Maybe later, Kas.”

The past would still be there tomorrow, and every day, moving forward. There was no need to dwell on it anymore tonight.


	9. Pain and Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kas and Sam make it out of Kaskala to find shelter in a storm, then Kas tells of his fight against the Underground, specifically an assault on a dock and a large revelation about his enemy.

The next morning, Kas woke up before his companion. Having no clothing, he stayed quietly bundled up, and when Sam yawned and got up, he commented politely that he didn’t want to freeze when they got moving. Sam grunted, going out for a few minutes--coming back with his clothes and dumping them unceremoniously on Kas’s chest.

Kas dressed in the warmth of the sleeping-furs, then got up for the first time in two days, wincing and stretching. A tuskarr brought them a large porridge-like breakfast, and they ate in silence. The same tuskarr came back, telling them the shaman wanted to see them, and the rogues stepped out into the cold.

The village was bustling, and the walrus-folk chortled and chatted and stopped, seeing the outsiders. There was no animosity--the rogues had helped them, after all--but they still were politely guarded and fell into a lull, the only sound the whip of the cold air.

Kas and Sam ducked into the large tent of the shaman woman, and she looked up at them with a collected smile. A string of beads with a feather was in her hand, dangling over Xairestraszas who batted away at it like a kitten, but as they entered the whelpling turned and squawked in delight. The shaman hoisted herself up, holding the squirming Xairestraszas out, and Kas carefully took the whelpling, cradling it. He nodded his thanks, bowing his eyes, and the shaman bowed in kind.

“Keep him warm,” she said simply, then held out a hand, showing no interest in their continued company. “Bring him to family. I will not delay you.”

Kas nodded, murmuring thanks, turning and leaving, tucking Xairestraszas in the sling again and tucking a layer around the thin cloth; a thick fur insulator blanket. Sam nodded her thanks too and left with Kas, pulling her cloak up with a grumble.

They got their things and went out along the thin roads into the Borean Tundra.

The roads curved quietly upward, a lazy incline that moved into the colder reaches of Northrend. Kas and Sam headed east, not trying to speak over the howling wind, pulling their cloaks tight and braving the cruel weather. Xairestraszas curled in against Kas’s warm chest, and Kas was thankful he’d put the extra layer around the sling.

To the north, a huge mountain loomed against the icy air, towering up with white peaks in the distance. Between it and them, a forest of dark trees yawned, with hidden threats potentially behind every trunk. Far and away, the remnants of a great spire rose in the west, swirling with blue energy. But the road was quietly curving east along the coast, and the vicious winds rising over the cliffs to buffet them tore away any sense of wonder Kas initially had, replacing it with a wish for warmth and nothing else.

It got dark unnaturally fast, and Sam glanced overhead, muttering a curse under her breath. Kas followed her gaze--storm clouds of dark grey rolled fast over the land, and snow started to fall…

“We need to find somewhere. _Now_.”

Sam rushed ahead on the road, and Kas followed. The road was empty land; no signposts or outcroppings--

“There!” Kas said, pointing to a large thin obelisk in the distance, winding up out of nowhere with faded purple sides and cold steel, stairs leading up to an empty doorway--

Sam balked. “No. Somewhere else.”

The snow fell overhead, and the wind blew it hard up into their faces. Kas growled. “Sam, there is nowhere else, and this is going to be a bad storm, isn’t it?”

“There’s gotta be somewhere else--”

Kas growled and rushed on towards the obelisk, glancing around to see that she hadn’t moved. “ _Come on!_ ”

Sam shivered, taking a step forward, the wind picking up to a howl, snow starting to obscure the space between them--

Kas ran back, grabbing her arm, tugging her along hard and rushing down the road.

Sam yelled in anger and fear, twisting her arm free and reversing the lock, slamming his against his back and buckling his knees. Kas yipped then roared in rage, shifting to his huge worgen form--the girth of his arm too much to still over-power--wrapping Sam up and squeezing her flailing form, sprinting to the obelisk--

They got in to the doorless room and the wind chased them. Sam flailed, screaming murder at him, and Kas squinted through the flying snow and the dim light, finding stairs going up and taking them, going up a level.

The dark place was narrow, lightless, and stank to high Heaven. Kas could tell with the reverberation of the sound there was no one in there, and a pit in the center to light a fire at. The wind buffeted up the stairs but couldn’t reach them, and so it was still--

Sam wriggled free, yelling like a terrified animal, smashing a punch into Kas’s chest, barely missing the sling, frenzied and reeling back to hit him again--

Kas caught her arm, fumbling but strong, pinning her arms to her sides. She tried to kick, roaring at him, but he held her at bay, arms so much longer in wolf form--

“ _ENOUGH, DAMMIT, WE’RE SAFE!_ ”

His roar shook the narrow, echoing chamber, and Sam stopped, wincing and shuddering. Xairestraszas wailed from his sling, and Kas let Sam go, stalking away and petting the whelpling, soothing.

“Easy, boy…”

“You _idiot_ \--” Sam said, voice trembling. “Do you know where we are?”

“It doesn’t matter where we are,” Kas said. “We’re safe. There’s no one here.”

“This is a plague obelisk; it was used--”

“Sam, no one is here; who cares about what this was?!”

“ _I CARE!_ ”

Kas made out a strangled breath in the dark and paused, unsure if she was sobbing. Her breath shivered and she let out an angry sigh.

“I’m not staying here,” she mumbled.

“Then leave,” Kas said coldly. “I’ll find your frozen corpse and mail it back to your King.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Sam sat down, curling up against the wall opposite him. Kas sat down too, petting the dragon and letting the sling loosen to let Xairestraszas stretch his limbs but stay warm. The dragon whimpered and hummed and Kas petted him, shushing him, playing with him.

An hour passed. The storm raged…

Sam sniffled. Kas glanced over to where her dim outline was. She clung to her knees, shivering. He sighed, grunting and getting up, huge warm wolf form lumbering to her and sitting down next to her. He started to move his arm to pull her in, just to be warm and comforting--

“Don’t touch me.”

He let his arm fall.

“Want any food?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled.

Kas fished out food from their sack, handing it over and a skin of water. She took them, eating and drinking, then mumbled. “Tell me a story and get my mind off this place.”

“Okay,” he said, voice tired and trying to be gentle, starting in on:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    Kas coughed awake almost a full week after he was brought into Kelleniana’s shack. It had been Tanlia who had made the discovery--for Tanlia, now 21, had been living there now a few weeks, and didn’t share the same complete reserve for men that Kell had. The 14-year-old was sincerely unhappy, but Nazwena murmured about goodwill towards a dying man--for Kas was in horrible shape, bleeding profusely from his stomach and not long for the world--and the least Kell could do with her knowledge of alchemy and a warlock’s blood magic would be to ease his pain.

    They laid him out in bed, and Kell did what she could to clean the wound and heal the pain--but in the process, Kas teetered between life and death and the young woman became more and more determined that she would heal him with all the power she had.

    And so, six days later, Kas hacked and woke, weak and moaning in agony, not healed fully but living.

    The first thing he saw as he weakly opened his eyes was Tanlia’s red eyes, peering down behind her ebon hair, narrowed and looking over him. She moved back sharply, then took a firm breath.

    “Your red hair. Who are you; what’s your family name?”

    Kas tried to speak, but his mouth tasted like cotton had been stuffed in it, and try as he might to swallow there was nothing to satiate the burning of dried blood against his raw throat.

    “Water,” he managed, tears welling up and rolling down his face. “Please, _please_ , water.”

    Tanlia paused and glanced over at something he couldn’t see.

    “ _Please_ ,” he begged, sniffling, every breath bringing a bolt of pain from his chest, “please let me drink water; please, it hurts and I can’t swallow and I want to swallow.”

    Tanlia moved back, relenting, getting a cup of water and holding it carefully, the other hand moving under his head, tilting both slowly. “Drink slowly. Small sips.”

    Kas sipped… and sipped… and sipped… draining half the cup before moving his head slightly and Tanlia let him down. He gulped and coughed and gulped again, breathing easier.

    Tanlia sighed, wiping his hair back and wiping away the streak of tears along his cheeks. “You’re a mess.”

    Kas laughed, bitter and weak. “Yeah.”

    The door opened, and Kell came in with crops collected in a basket, shadowed by Naz. They paused, looking over the male, and Kas stared up weakly at them, not even attempting to move.

    “He’s up,” Kell finally said, moving through the large one-room shack and setting the herbs down by the makeshift kitchen.

    “He is,” Naz murmured, shutting the door and moving over, the first demon Kas had ever seen, her tail swishing behind her satyr hooves, her body lithe and visible under the barest garments, wings folded, horns and pointed ears--

    Kas gulped. “Am I dead?”

    “Not yet,” the succubus purred, “but you might very well be soon. Who are you and what happened to you?”

    Kas gulped, taking a breath. “My name is Kaskaeld Remor. The Ghost of Gilneas.”

    Tanlia growled, pulling a dagger out from her belt--Kell put a hand on her arm, stopping her.

    “How’d you get near my home and a step from death, rogue?”

    Kas sighed, and told them the story of his life until he was pushed off the cliff throughout the afternoon, evening, and night. The three women listened quietly, Tanlia’s face emoting the most in terms of surprise and frowning, but they did not interrupt him save Naz giving him water every so often and soup broth from the meal Kell made for dinner. At the end of it, night had fallen, and discussions were postponed until the morning, as Kell said firmly. The young girl with so much power curled up to sleep, and Tanlia grumbled but did likewise, Naz staying and watching them all then moving to her half-sister and hugging her close, not needing much rest.

    The next morning, Kell and Naz woke to see Tanlia watching the Remor lad darkly. She had told them her life; they understood.

    “Why are you glaring at me?” Kas asked softly, eyes still shut.

    Tanlia raised a brow then took a breath, the idea of a rogue fighting without eyesight still new to her. “My dad killed yours because yours gave me a kid.”

    Kas opened his eyes and looked at her sharply, realizing.

    “Yeah,” she said, pointing between them. “All this is because he couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

    Kas nodded slowly. “I’m sorry. I’m not-- like him.”

    “I figured,” she said, looking away. “Doesn’t help you look like him, though. But--Katia vouched for you rather hard--”

    Kas sat up fast and fell back in a hiss of agony, gritting his teeth. Kell moved out of bed, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Stay down, idiot, you’re still hurt.”

    “Where-- where is Katia?” Kas managed, looking past Kell.

    Tanlia shrugged. “I’ve been trying to find that out myself. I was dropped off at the brothel after your dad found me and made sure Katia was okay these past couple months. And then this Garrett fellow came and took her and I didn’t see him but I heard his name and when I chased him I got ambushed and kicked down a very steep hill into the woods which I did not at all appreciate. Kell found me and I’ve been here trying to figure out how to find him and keeping an ear to the ground with Naz--and then we heard whispers about what a big-shot he was and ‘trained the Ghost’ and this and that and then here you are.”

    Kas watched her then looked away, nodding weakly. His sister was gone. For now, he thought. I’ll find her come Hell or high water.

    The days passed in uneasy quiet. Kelleniana was less than thrilled with a man in her home but there were still a few times Kas brought a smile to her face; he was an older brother, after all, and a good one at that. Naz and Tanlia seemed to have a teasing closeness to each other, and though Kas couldn’t define exactly what it was, he thought it rather obvious by their smiles and their long trips out together. Kell seemed content without them near, and worked diligently at whatever interested her; books some days, alchemy other days, amidst toiling over crops and going out to the Gilnean coast every so often to watch the waves.

    And yet, the more she stayed in with the bedridden, healing rogue, the more they talked. She told him in simple terms the story of her life, which he responded to with deep sympathy and vows to protect her. She scoffed at the protection but it caught her off-guard nonetheless, as if no one had uttered them before. She spent more and more time sitting at the bedside, letting him read to her or letting him relate all the stories he’d heard, even if they were just the gossips happening among the nobles. Nazwena regarded him a bit uneasily, as did Tanlia, but they couldn’t deny a simplicity of charisma and that, despite his stubborn nature and his occasional snarl about so much time wasted in bed, they still were rather happy he was there.

    After a week, Kas was let out of bed and gingerly started to walk again, going first around the house then further to the coast with Kell then out into the woods to hunt game for them. Tanlia met him in the yard as he returned, accosting him and holding out his daggers--if they were to go after Katia, Kas would need to be in the right shape.

    The rogues clashed--and clashed hard. Kell became their aggravated healer, and the sparring was ample opportunity for Tanlia to lash out with vicious hatred at a Remor man as much as it was for Kas to work out his frustration with Katia’s situation. Kell healed scrapes and bruises and sprained muscles but put her foot down with unwavering anger: if they got a bad wound during their matches, she wasn’t healing their stupidity.

    They pulled back their tempers but the sparring over the next two weeks of their lives was still rough. And, finally, Kas felt ready to go.

    Tanlia insisted on going with, but both Kell and Naz refused their leaving and clung to them. Kas, frustrated, proposed Kell come with, but the girl looked up, tears starting in her eyes.

    “I want you to stay,” she murmured. “Please.”

    Kas paused, then sighed softly. “Kell. I _have_ to find my sister. I have to. She’s all I have left of my family; I have to keep her safe.”

    “Naz can search for her--” Kell looked up at the succubus, pleading, and Naz paused, caught, then nodded a weak assent.

    Kas stayed longer, but he was antsy. Naz was away long days, and Kell puttered about with frivolous tasks and doted on the rogues, clinging to them more and more as the hours went by. Naz returned without any word.

    One night, after the stars had come out and Kell was asleep, Kas and Tanny sat outside, looking up.

    “What are you going to do?” she asked, voice tired. “Kell isn’t going to let either of us go. She’s afraid of leaving this home and we’re all she has.”

    Kas nodded softly, shutting his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

    “You need to go,” Naz said gently from behind them. They turned, sharp, watching her. The succubus smiled, polite. “Kell is young. She shouldn’t go into the battles you two must face, but you two have your paths. And while there is unrest in your mind, you have yet far to travel.”

    Kas took a long breath. “I don’t want to just--leave her.”

    “You won’t,” Naz said simply. “I’ll be here and I can keep an eye on your progress, through the shadows. And, I will expect that you will come back once you accomplish your goals.”

    “Tanny might,” Kas said tiredly. “I’m fighting the whole damn Underground. There are, as best my memory serves, about a thousand, four-hundred and eighty-three rogues, sailors, and everything that work within it. I’m not expecting to live.”

    “Then come back as a ghost,” Naz said simply, glowing eyes never leaving him. Kas gulped and nodded, then hoisted himself up and went in. He moved to Kell’s bedside, knelt down and kissed her cheek.

    “I have to go, now, little love. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. But you stay strong, and you stay happy. Your smile lights up the world.”

    Kas moved out, leaving, and after Tanny murmured her goodbyes and kissed Naz tenderly, murmuring a promise of return, she left alongside him.

    The rogue’s journeying was far and dark, and too long to explain in full. The first months were the hardest; they found an abandoned house near the center of the city, by Gilneas Chapel, and took refuge there among a leaking roof and little food. They clashed hourly, but Tanlia finally consented that the best way of finding Katia would be to pick off other members of the Underground one by one--to spread fear into the hearts of those higher-ups that had dared steal her away, so that their tongues were loose by the time the rogues found them.

    The assault against the Underground was, in total, five years long. There were numerous small ambushes; numerous peons killed by Kas in the long shadows of the peninsula. Tanlia left twice a year, insisting she would stay with Naz and Kell, but each time returned, hearing how the Ghost was wreaking havoc on knaves and knowing--rightly--that Kas had gone home to lick his wounds. He was described as untouchable, but Tanlia knew that was false: Kas’s litany of scars grew more and more extensive by the week.

    But they made progress.

    A cloud of fear rushed through Gilneas’s immoral populace--the die had been cast and they were realizing quickly their time running brazenly over the King had come to an end. Garrett made no move, nor did Kas hear anything of the man.

    King Greymane himself was very vocal about the effect of the Ghost: bring the villains out from the shadows, but leave their punishment to be decided by law. Kas didn’t heed that one bit, and slashed through body after body as the months wore on. Genn grew adamant, then combative; a vigilante undermined the structure of the jobs, as workers were dying--of the political sphere especially when corrupt lords died--and the total authority of the King’s power.

    Nevertheless, Kas continued, and Tanlia aided him off and on, usually the one planning, gathering information, and strategizing their next move while Kas slaughtered in silence.

    Three years into their campaign of five, Tanlia got wind of a huge deal going down at the 4th District dock. The 4th District, or District 4--it really didn’t matter--they both knew was a central hub of the Underground; almost every shop’s profits funneled into the organization, and the dock itself, on the far end of it, was their main source for cargo and shipping. It was their fortress in Gilneas: it was where, when all the peons and even the lords were gone, they could hole up in complete safety.

    It was the fight that would either turn the tide against this massive nation of cruelty or end Kas once and for all.

    Tanlia and Kas poured over the maps, the routes in, how many guards there were, in what houses they were supposed to be--

    --and locked horns again badly over Tanlia’s proposal to bring in the Greymane army to help.

    “--if they assault the front lines, one or both of us could sneak around through to the docks ourselves and take them by surprise; if we go in loud at the gates, Kas, they’ll be ready--or _gone_ \--once we get to the docks!”

    “Genn Greymane doesn’t give a damn about this fight!” Kas seethed back at her, “If he did, he would’ve done it himself decades ago!”

    “And maybe he didn’t because it wasn’t a good time to, _like it is now!_ ”

    “Or maybe, Tanny, because he’s more worried about protecting his bloody image than doing shit as a _king!_ ”

    “You know what, Kas--fuck you! I’m going to get him myself!”

    “Fine! Do that! And once you’re in jail and tortured for information where I am and not where any Underground are, his armies will come to the dock too fucking late and it’ll all be over!”

    “I got news for you, you piece of shit--” she roared, prodding a hard fingering into the center of his chest, “--you _are_ a member of the Underground! Broken away or not, betrayed them or not, you still fought for them; you still killed for them; you still worked for them and helped advance all this shit you’re trying to pull down now! And you’re not doing _that_ because you hate them all; you’re doing it to find one person! You’re trying to kill hundreds--over a fucking _thousand_ \--taking away all those hands of labor, all those positions to bring in food and wealth to our already closed-off economy, just to find one girl!”

    “ _I am not one of them,_ ” he said through gritted teeth, shuddering. “And I’d rather they all burned in Hell than let the wealth come in--from tickets to a _fucking gladiator ring--that I was forced into at EIGHT FUCKING YEARS OLD!_ ”

    He turned away, going to the corner of the room and curling up, hiding his face against his knees.

    Tanlia watched him a moment, sighed angrily, then went to the door. “I’m getting Greymane and his army,” she said, voice flat. “Maybe we’ll be there in time to save your life.”

    She left.

    The evening of District 4’s large shipment came quick.

 

<The Assault on District 4>

    Kas left quietly and made his way through the city, slinking along through the shadows against the buildings. The white deermane was hard to hide, and as he passed by people, knowing he was well-hidden, they paused and shivered fearfully, thinking they’d seen a specter gliding by--vanished as they turned to find it again.

    The moon glided overhead against dark clouds. The sky was deep indigo, and stars glittered their rare faces over the clearer night. The cobbled ground was slick from rain, but the storm had abated for the moment. The buildings leered overhead, quiet monuments twisting up into the night, leading him on down the road, without any lights to guide him, no doors open to duck into and save him from the inevitable hopelessness of the fight--

    Kas walked on in quiet determination. He wasn’t turning back. Fighting District 4 had to be done. If he failed, it would’ve had to happen sometime. If he won, everything from then on would be easier; to take down District 4, even Garrett would be shaking--

    Kas paused at the canal. A bridge arched lazily over the land--maybe twenty feet at most--separating District 3 from District 4. Once he stepped over, it was on.

    Kas took a deep breath, ducked from the cover of the building, and darted, stealthed but in white armor in the moonlight, over the bridge into enemy territory.

    The houses were quiet here too but the air was different, sparking with energy, tense on the lookout for anyone that dared intrude on business. Kas narrowed his eyes, darting to the first house acting as a guard station--a small stable: the first lookout and the fastest response to any problem District 4 had.

    The door was open still, and five guards--the five that Tanlia had gotten word about (she asked a lot of folk on the street, and with her charm got very good answers)--were sitting or wandering through the building. Hay was strewn on the ground, and a chair was propped up against the door, one of the huntsman in it looking out lazily at the night. Lanterns rustled on their hooks from the hard sea winds, but the flames were protected by walls of smudged glass.

    “Terry,” one of them said from the stables, looking over the sleeping horses. “Anything going on outside?”

    “Just the wind,” Terry, the guard sitting at the door grunted.

    “Lots of wind,” a third said mildly.

    The outdoor lantern came unhooked somehow, bouncing along the ground and rolling away down the street.

    Terry started up from his chair, shivering and looking around. The others poked their heads out, eyeing him.

    “What?”

    “Lantern jumped off its bleedin’ perch,” Terry said.

    “Just the wind, Terry, don’t go getting spooked. Honestly.”

    “Wind wasn’t blowing any harder,” the guard mumbled, shifting uneasily. The lantern rolled and rolled in the wind over the cobblestone street and into an alleyway, a narrow glint of warm light between two dark buildings.

    “Well,” one of the others said mildly, looking at the light blowing further and further into the dark crevice of civilization, “go get it.”

    “Yeah, Terry, honestly; go get the light.”

    “Shut it, you gits; _you_ get the light!”

    “It’s your stupid lantern! You don’t want it, fine; what’s the matter, man? It’s an empty alley!”

    “Sure,” Terry grumbled, setting off across the street, shivering in the hard breeze.

    The others watched--and Terry disappeared into the dark alley.

    It was narrow, the walls pressing in tight as he went along, barely enough space for one person much less two--he turned sideways, taking a firm breath, glancing behind him. Nobody he could see following. That’s fine. The lantern ahead--illuminating the ground. A few gross, squeaking rats, rushing away as he moved closer to them. Nasty little buggers.

    If he screamed, he wasn’t sure they’d hear him. The wind was blowing so roughly through the tight space. It was its own vacuum--anyone could reach him there--

    He grabbed the lantern, fumbling with the thin iron arch, the handle, wincing and hissing to himself as it squeaked unoiled and banged about so loud in the quiet alley, alerting where he was--

    He grabbed it tighter, hoisting it up, the firelight dancing about sharply through the narrow space. No one ahead of him--as far as he could see, before the light echoed away into dim nothingness. No one behind, silhouetted in the moonlight coming in from the street. He just had to make it back there, then.

    Terry licked his lips, making his way back slowly then dancing along in a half-jog, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no ghosts came from the darkness, his lantern warding them off, surely; the exit to the alley so close--

    He made it out and gasped in the night air, moving quickly to the center of the street. He’d been alone in there; of course he had. How ridiculous of him to imagine otherwise, even with stories of some rogue elite slaughtering Underground members. No one would dare come to District 4; and he certainly would’ve been heard in the tight space, even if he had a penchant for being vanished.

    Terry walked back to the stables, hanging up the lantern again outside. “Got it!” he said with a sneer. “That’s right, you gits; I went and got it, not any of you scared bitches--”

    Terry stopped. Gasped. Eyes wide.

    The other four were splayed across the hay, still in puddles of blood.

    Terry turned to flee--

    The Ghost stood behind him, and he knew no more.

    Kas made his way silently out towards the docks, delving deeper and deeper into District 4. He wove a path to hit every guard station, leaving them all silent and still--clambering into the windows of the Underground businessmen pulling the profits from the starving masses, leaving them again just as quietly.

    And, finally, he came upon the docks.

    The moon was clearer in the sky, and the air was crisp and cold. The water licked the shore and against the side of a grand boat that a swarm of dark bodies hustled to and from. Kas perched himself at the edge of the wooden steps leading down to the dock, taking a long breath. This would be difficult.

    There were three buildings near, and five more along the dock itself. There were other ships--all Underground owned--that were stocking up on the cargo; weaponry, to ship in and ship out. The crew and workers were estimated at seventy or so that night, as Tanlia had told him, and all would be potentially outfitted to the gills with blunderbusses and swords.

    What a set of odds to be up against.

    Kas thought a moment, then took a breath. No time to start like the present--he grabbed a pebble, tossing it down the steps carefully and hiding away by a nearby wall. Two guards below, chatting, paused and looked up the steps--their eyes narrowing, unsheathing their swords and making their way up--

    Kas waited, waited--

    --they came up and looked around, and he got the drop on them, stabbing one through the side of the neck and tackling the other down, subduing him and making short work of the man.

    Two down then, and so many to go.

    Kas darted down the stairs and paused a moment at the back wall of the building on the end of the dock, next to the back door. Better to take out these people than have them rush him--but they might be discovered. He could prop up the door inside and keep it locked; that would be suspicious but at least it wouldn’t bring anyone completely to alarm.

    The back door opened, and two fellows came out, laughing over something, a stench of alcohol on their breath. They paused, seeing Kas’s white armor in the shadows--

    Kas rushed them, pushing them out of the line of sight in the doorframe and to the ground, sinking his blades into their necks, holding them fiercely down as they wriggled and spasmed and died. He retrieved the daggers quickly, lining up next to the door, listening--

    Voices inside, boisterous and annoyed, calling for the two not to be out too long. No one immediately coming. Thank the Gods for that.

    How many in there?

    Kas listened, mapping it out in his head: seven in total--one against the back wall, two playing cards, three upstairs doing something, and one now going up; the best time to go in--

    As the one on the stairs moved out of view, Kas darted in, hurling his daggers into the two playing cards before they could call out, barreling down the other and suppressing all the noise he could from the man, smothering and gritting his teeth, muscles straining, hoping the one on the steps didn’t come back--the two card-players thumping down hard against the table--

    “Keep it down, you gits! Doesn’t matter if you’re losing,” the man grumbling, continuing upstairs.

    The one under Kas thrashed, but Kas pinned him, exerting all his force--crushing the air from him completely. Once he was still, Kas retrieved his blades, stealthing and panting and going up--

    Two were paused at the top of the stairs, chatting, and Kas licked his lips, careful--

    He sank the blades into their legs, wincing at the shocked wheezes and yelps, quickly stabbing up into their necks--

    The noise alerted the last two, and they rushed out, seeing him, yelling murder to raise an alarm but blessedly unable to get much through the thick walls--

    Kas rushed them fast, stabbing into one before the man could react, but the other was further back, swinging the walking-staff he had a hold of--

    The staff cracked into Kas’s arm, the hard wood smashing along his bicep, and Kas hissed in pain. The last rogue yelled again, lifting the staff to break it over Kas’s head--

    Kas threw his friend into him, knocking him off-balance, following through with a stab sinking into some vital, squishy part--pain seething through his arm and making his head numb, unable to focus or hear what was happening--

    The last rogue in the building fell, and Kas stumbled back, daggers in hand, gingerly raising his right arm, another wave of pain coursing through as he moved it. He flexed his fingers, opened and closed them--not broken, then, but still damaged.

    “Shit,” he mumbled in a weak breath, leaning his head back against a wall. But there was no turning back now.

    He made his way out of the building quickly, searching the next and only finding two people, blessedly in different rooms engrossed in sorting things--easy kills. The third building was raucous with sailors--Kas paused outside, feeling his arm twinge, and thought. Maybe he could tackle something else; maybe not here, not yet. Maybe they’d spread out. He bit his lip, the muscles in his bicep throbbing, and steadied himself. Damn it all.

    Kas took a breath, reversing his course back, working his way along the sides and out to the edge of the dock, slinking along, bent low, far from anyone’s eyes. He made his way to the first ship, pausing, assessing--workers, going to and fro still, carrying cargo. People down below. Ship’s crew and these dockhands going through rooms alone--okay.

    Kas tilted his head, listening, and heard the wind rushing along through an open window in the ship, large enough for a body to fit through. Excellent--

    He took a breath, took a few steps back, then sprinted as hard as possible, throwing himself and catching his right hand to the windowsill, bumping against the side of the ship, pressing his masked face in agony against the wood as his arm burned and shrieked along his nerves. He grabbed the sill with his left as well, alleviating some of the pressure, and let out a shuddering breath--

    “The Hell was that?” a voice from inside the room asked.

    Kas tensed, and someone from inside moved to the window. Kas scrunched up his features, every ounce of might focused on stealthing--

    The tough-sounding woman stopped at the window, gazing out… gazing down, squinting--

    “Captain, for the sake of the Gods, let’s not get spooked now,” an annoyed man said from within.

    “Dammit, Robison,” the Captain said, turning, “I don’t want anything going wrong here! Nothing. Weird sounds are something! It’s your bloody dock; if there’s something else going on--”

    “Nothing else is going on, ma’am; I work an honest, respectable dock.”

    “Sure,” she scoffed moving away towards Robison, “just like I run an honest, respectable ship.”

    Kas took the opportunity, under the cover of her back, to slink in the window behind her and crouch again, numbness sweeping up his arm and his back. The Captain started talking about cargo specifics, that much he could tell--the rest, that the room was well-decorated, at the end of the ship, and closed. Easy enough; he could leave whenever, then.

    The Captain’s ear twitched, and she turned, frowning and seeing the hint of a white shape. “Who the fuck--?”

    Kas sprang, knocking her back against Robison before she could react and crushing his breath out before he could yell. She snarled and kicked at the rogue, unsheathing her sword, inhaling to scream for her crew--

    Kas punched her nose hard, stifling the yell and forcing her to wince and swing wildly, backing again into Robison--

    The swing caught the edge of Kas’s side, slicing through the layers of armor and cutting a fine line along his skin. He winced, coming in again--

    The Captain dodged fast, and Kas impaled Robison to the ship, letting the man splutter in surprise and gasp like a dying fish. The Captain showed him no mercy either, her sword driving in deep too as Kas darted away from her stab. Robison spasmed, red flooding from his mouth down his chin, then fell still--

    She retrieved her sword and he his dagger, standing head to head. She growled, teary-eyed from her broken nose, and licked her lips. “You must be the Ghost everyone’s been so damn frightened about. I can see why. You’re good--but you’re human, and you made a big mistake coming here--”

    She swung at him, and Kas blocked--only for her to feint and stab at him along the other side. He jerked his body back but the blade tore through along his side, piercing him and bringing about pain but not hitting deep enough to be vital--

    She swung again, and Kas parried desperately, retaliating--but the daggers were no match for her in terms of length. She advanced, an expert swords-woman--

    Kas braced himself and charged in, taking a hit along his left shoulder that shot fire along his tendons, but got in closer--

    She darted back, hissing, but too late, her sword useless past him, her other hand batting at his daggers and getting cuts and knicks--

    He kicked out her leg and she yelped loud, falling--into the pointed tip of one blade, her windpipe letting out a wheeze like a broken reed as her eyes shot wide in surprise. She shivered and went still, and Kas tossed the body aside, his sides stinging and his arms both now darts of pain to move at all.

    “Shit!” he moaned low to himself, then moved to the door, panting, pressing an ear to it--

    --a force crashed into it, throwing Kas backwards to the ground, and two crewmen that had stood guard nearby and heard the commotion burst in.

    “Cap’n-- CAPTAIN!” one roared, and as Kas got to his feet shakily the lumbering man roared again louder and charged, smashing the rogue back into the wall and bruising his ribs with weight and force, crushing a leg and straining the muscles for a moment--

    The other sprinted away to get guards--

    The first one grabbed Kas by the throat, squeezing--

    --forgetting he had daggers, which Kas sank in wild desperation into the man’s temples. The crewman jerked, then relaxed off of him, slumping dead with his captain. Kas gasped for air, coughed, then listened as, above, a clamor started.

    “ _Shit--_ ” he murmured, and limped in a sprint out of the room--

    --stealthing behind crates as the crew came down from above, a clamor of voices, easily twenty men, swords drawn and in their peak shape, seething for the blood of whoever dared kill their beloved Captain--

    They went to the cabin then spread out. Kas thanked the Gods silently that they had enough hubris and wisdom-clouding-rage to “deal with it themselves” and that none rushed back upstairs to raise a further alarm. But they were all there--and if he gave away his position, killing one, they’d all be on him…

    The crew knocked around, bumping over boxes, and Kas slunk by to safer spaces, waiting. They’d find him if he did nothing--

    One of the crates tipped over, revealing gunpowder and new rifles--their shipment. Prototypes that were, as stenciled on the barrels, MULTIPLE SHOTS PER LOAD. Kas couldn’t make out the words, eyes shut in concentration, but the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the room as did the clank of rifles. He took another breath--

    A crewman stumbled on his hiding-spot--

    Kas sunk his daggers into the unfortunate smuggler’s gut, pushing him backwards then kicking the column of crates in front of him over with all his might. The men on the other side yelled and scattered save one, whose shrieks cut off with the CRASH! of heavy wood and metal. The men roared and charged and Kas darted forward, not letting himself be cornered all at once, charging--

    He met the first, parrying and slashing the man’s arm, but before he could follow up another attacked, then another and another still--he parried hard, kicking at knees as he did and striking at all he could, daggers throwing arcs of blood into the air around him as his tired arms whirled--

    The onslaught of crewmen came in hard, and Kas ducked under, barrelling through to clear a path and slashing as he went, not registering who was alive and who wasn’t, head pounding, just knowing that if it was a moving being there, it was attacking--

    Swords slashed and cut, slicing along his arms, his reach shorter with his shorter blades. He winced, darting back and sheathing his bloody daggers, grabbing of the rifles on the ground by the barrel and heaving, bringing the butt of it sharply around to CRACK! into the nearest crewman’s head, throwing the man limply to the ground--

    Kas darted, grabbing two swords from the fallen gun-runners, clashing against the remaining crowd, pushed back but holding firm and refusing to let them curl around his sides, always moving, darting about despite the small space, his white armor disgusting with blood and gunpowder and cuts--

    The metallic clashing rang throughout--Kas parried and managed a light stab, maiming one; parried and slashed along another’s face; feinted and dodged and ran another through--

    The crew were slowing, but their desperation and their adrenaline pushed him back against the wall, his own body starting to slow, too soon--

    He put a foot against the curving wall of the ship and heaved hard, jumping as one rushed his sword horizontal to impale Kas, the rogue landing nimbly on the embedded body of the blade in the thick hull long enough to slash both swords down with all his might along the heads of the five encircling him--

    As those bodies fell, Kas tucked and rolled again, recovering to a kneeling position and spinning, slicing through the knees and legs of the remaining and descending on them on the ground--

    Two more charged, and Kas perceived in a split second before they got to him that they were finally the last two--

    --both with two swords each--

    He parried desperately, but they slashed quick and vicious. He stepped back and arched away as they cut at him but still his chest tore with streaks of crimson. He got lucky, parrying one as the ship lurched with a big wave, knocking that one off-balance enough for Kas to spear through his head--

    The other redoubled his efforts with a yell, knocking both swords out of Kas’s hand one after the other. Kas darted back quickly as the last crewman swung--and underneath the rogue’s foot, the barrel of a rifle suddenly jutted up. The uneven ground threw Kas off-balance, twisting his ankle under him as his weight came down sideways--

    Kas screamed, but rolled over, dodging a sword coming down in a stab through the floor, the other coming down--

    Kas rolled away, grabbing desperately at the gun, having never fired one but knowing how, turning it up on the assailant as he came in, pulling the trigger--

    Without bracing it to himself, the recoil slammed into his solar plexus hard, knocking the wind out of him, and the explosion that whirled through the closed, echoing hull of the ship made him scream, rolling onto his side and curling up into a fetal ball, clutching his hands to his ears, too little too late. His head throbbed in pain, the world behind his closed eyes swirling spirals of brown and red, but beyond that numb ringing he could faintly make out that the last man wasn’t coming. He opened his eyes, unable to rely on his ears anymore, until someone healed him--

    The last man was much more the puddle of gore than any of the others, his chest a hole of black and soft red. Kas winced, shutting his eyes again, and rocked in pain. They’d all be coming now, and he had to move, _he had to move_ \--

    Outside the ship, there was yelling and a clamor of mobilization. Everyone knew, now. They were ready.

    “COME OUT!” Kas heard over the haze of ringing, and his heart sank. They would fight on their terms.

    He laid back on the ground, exhausted, hurting, barely able to breathe, and took the quiet moment in. Each second, pain pulsed through him, but he slowed himself. Quiet, steady breaths: in and out, in and out. Simple and easy.

    A small voice in his head was in tears. This was it, then. It was going to end. He didn’t want to die; he didn’t want to fight. He just wanted his sister back.

    “Too late for that,” he mumbled to himself, and took another breath, firm and deep. Time to get up and go.

    Kas hoisted himself up, gritting his teeth, wobbling to his feet and opening his eyes, glancing carefully out the window. In front of the ship, lined up, every single other person of the Underground District 4 had left. Good, he thought; they were at least all there. That made this easier than tracking them down.

    He couldn’t count them all, but it was at least forty remaining. Fifty wouldn’t be a bad estimate; sixty was probably pushing it. Not bad odds then. For them.

    “Fuck it,” he murmured. Like Hell he was giving up.

    “COME THE FUCK OUT!” one of them roared again--the other ship’s captain, from the looks of him. Kas paid him little attention, glancing around the room.

    Munitions, cannons, bodies--

    Oh.

    _Oh_.

    The cannons of the ship had been pulled in while the ship had docked; didn’t want to appear dangerous while sailing into port to drop off illegal cargo. No raised suspicions. Small enough and on wheels so that he might be able to move them solo. And that meant--

    Kas darted around, grabbing cannonballs in his aching arms and pressing them down the mouths of the iron cannons, hearing the balls clunk dully against the bottom. He got one--did the next--did the full row--

    “GET OUT HERE NOW OR WE COME IN!”

    Kas glanced out the window. He didn’t want them to move--

    “I’M CRAWLING--” he yelled out, not needing to do much acting to hold back a sob of anguish. “MY LEG’S CUT OFF; GIVE ME A FUCKING MINUTE!”

    The crowd blinked and a ripple of sneering laughter broke out. They held their weapons tighter cocky, save the Captain who narrowed his eyes…

    Kas grabbed fistfuls of gunpowder from the crates, cramming them one after the other after the other down the barrels of the cannons. He had no idea how much was needed, but if he used too much, how bad would it hurt?

    He took a breath then sighed. This was going to need all his strength--

    He grabbed the candle from the lantern and ran down the line, lighting the fuses of the five cannons available--

    He rushed back to the first, the wick burning fast, and with a frenzy of adrenaline screamed and pushed hard--

    The barrel barely got out the window--

    He rushed to the second, the fuse shorter, straining, pushing--

    The crowd outside frowned, then a scream went up--

    The third--

    The first blew off, shaking the boat, and Kas stumbled out of concentration at the fourth. The ground the boat was docked against tremored like an earthquake and screams from the crowd of fear and anger went up--

    He heaved again desperately at the fourth--

    The second went off, closer, rocking the boat again as he roared, pushing, barely getting the cannon, his body in agony, on to the fifth--

    The third went off just as he got to the fifth, tears streaming down his face, pressing against the heavy iron, barely able to see through a numb haze--

    The fourth went off--

    “Please-- please, you FUCKING THING--!” Kas screamed, pushing hard, getting it out--

    The fifth cannon blasted, loud but not deafening as it would’ve been inside the hold--but the iron jostled back hard, the end of it cracking into the center of Kas’s chest and knocking him back flat.

    He laid in silence, barely holding on to consciousness, vaguely aware there was still yelling outside. Footsteps. Coming closer. Coming aboard…

   Kas rolled weakly to his hands and knees, all his strength to even get off the ground, and crawled under the stairs, hiding. Coming down them quickly, the Captain and three men, soaking in the gore of their comrades, the last ones, the very last ones now--

    They moved out, slowly, examining the slain bodies and the stores of knocked-over gunpowder, spreading out…

    Kas shut his eyes and stealthed away, and how good he was at being unseen. He carefully crawled, heaving his way up the stairs, slow and delicate but quick, the men seething in anger--

    At the top of the steps, he found a lantern burning, ready for anyone going below or coming out in the night. Perfect.

    He got to his feet, limping, ankle twisted and leg strained--all of him strained--and grabbed the lantern carefully. He’d have to be quick--

    He threw the lantern down the steps and ran in his limp as hard and fast as he could. He leapt off the side into the water--

    The glass broke, the flame caught the powder--

    Kas held his ears and sunk as far as he could, and above an echoing THOOM shuddered and tore through the waves, a ripple of force and power as the ship exploded. The pieces rained down, wooden planks seared with fire and ash doused quickly in the bay water--

    Kas’s head pounded, and he couldn’t tell which way was up anymore--

    He found a piece of wood, part of a table, that had sunk but was bobbing back up, grabbing hold--

    The force of the explosion pulling down in the water ricocheted back up, and Kas rode the current, breaking through the surface and gasping in air, coughing, gasping again weakly--

    He found the dock, grabbed it, and somehow heaved himself up onto the wood, only able to make it halfway before the last bit of effort left him. His head slumped to his arms, elbows resting on the wood, and he panted, weak and spent.

    The dock was a mess of gore, the cannons having done their part tearing through the lines of Underground. A few moans filled the air, but Kas could vaguely make out through the rippling haze of hot air rising from the fire-filled ship carcass next to him that anyone left alive didn’t have much longer to be.

    Horses galloped in.

    King Greymane led the pack, stopping to look in disgust and disbelief at the picture painted for him. Next to him, Tanlia, in awe and horror, and next to her, a male guard-captain in shining armor.

    Behind them, an army.

    Tanlia had actually done it.

    Kas chuckled, then laughed, and his laugh filled the air even though it turned into a choke of pained sobs, his chest on fire with the force of mirth. If he’d waited, they’d’ve had an army.

    “There!” Tanlia said, seeing him, urging her horse onward and hopping off it when the beast dared go no further beyond the carnage of bodies.

    Greymane and his guards trotted up behind her, still stricken. The King started to speak, then couldn’t find the words. His guard-captain seemed perturbed, but remained stoic, a younger man with hardened features that had seen much.

    Tanlia knelt by the dock. “Kas-- Kas… Hey… easy; breathe, man…”

    She turned, looking to Genn. “Sir, a healer; please!”

    Genn looked at the bodies, then gulped and shut his eyes, then looked at Tanlia. “Stay there! Stay right there, Kaskaeld, and we’ll sort this out!”

    The guard-captain came down off his horse, and moved over slowly.

    Genn took a firm breath. “I cannot say entirely I agree with what you’re doing, but I’m not heartless; we will heal you. Then we will hear what you have to say to defend yourself. But for the love of the Gods, man, let us heal you and just come quietly.”

    The guard-captain moved closer, holding out a hand to help lift him…

    Genn looked truly, sincerely like he wanted to help, Kaskaeld thought in a weak daze. The old dog probably did. But he’d still put the rogue to death.

    “Garrett’s going to help you out of the water; he’s there to help!”

    Kas’s eyes widened, as did Tanlia’s. She realized who it had been now as she explained everything--including her being near Kas, Kell and Naz, and her desire to find Katia--to the guard-captain and begged his and Genn’s help. Why they had no idea District 4 had the big shipment coming in tonight.

    The man who held Katia captive.

    The King’s head guard.

    Garrett stepped into view, eyes narrowed in fury and pride in the firelight. “I’m here to help,” he said cooly. “Don’t fight me.”

    “FUCK YOU!”

    Tanlia pushed Kas back off the dock, wrapped an arm around his pained body, and swam for all her life was worth. They had to get back to Kell’s cottage, and fast.

    Genn rushed up on foot beside his trusted captain. “What happened?!”

    Garrett shook his head. “They apparently would rather remain outlaws than come in and stop such senseless violence. I don’t think it needs to be said that they’re a menace, my King.”

    Garrett motioned to the bodies strewn about, and Greymane nodded slowly, tiredly, watching them swim away into the night.

    “Permission to go to Lady Kelleniana’s cottage and apprehend them, sir? I know the dangers of the girl; and I don’t think she’s a part of this. But she’s where they’re going--I’d bet even money on it.”

    Genn took a deep breath, then let it out in sorrow. “Don’t lay a hand on the girl. But get those rogues. And please clean up this mess, if that’s possible.”

    Garrett bowed and motioned to his men, getting to work salvaging the dock and their supplies.

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    Before any more is said on the Underground’s story, it’s important to note a smaller event that similarly led to big consequences the next day.

    The war in Northrend had broken out, and news reached Gilneas as well as the rest of the world. The evening and night had seen Royyan going with his sisters and a friend to the monastery Henry was at.

    The draft included the two Barastos brothers--elder Yaranh, 25, and younger Henry, 24--but not Royyan, 22, as the warrior was staying to take Yaranh’s place as captain. Royyan and Henry stayed huddled together talking all evening, but finally it came time to say farewell.

    “Henry?”

    The young priest looked up into his warrior’s face, mid-hug. Royyan looked pained, holding his friend close.

    “The news from the front-- it’s-- it’s not good.”

    Henry nodded softly. Royyan started to say something but stopped, speaking again soft:

    “Be careful. Come back.”

    “I will,” Henry said gently.

    “I--” Royyan said, stopped, and paused, letting go of him and fumbling in his pocket. “Uh-- here.”

    He pulled out from his pocket a wolf’s fang, beaded on a brown leather necklace.

    “I can’t-- I don’t have--enough--for more. I’d give you the world if I did--”

    He stopped, unable to say more. Henry blushed and smiled, lowering his head, and Royyan put the necklace on him. Henry tucked the fang in under his robes, smiling softly again up at him.

    “Thank you.”

    Royyan nodded, still pained. Henry moved closer--

    Kanhya’s laughing interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced back at her, enjoying her time playing with Royyan’s sisters. Kanhya was, at this time, 11, while Royyan’s sister Ellanora was 17 and Gabrielle was 8.

    “I’ll watch after her,” Royyan said softly.

    “That might be harder than you think,” Henry said, turning back to his warrior, moving closer--

    “HENRY!” a voice called out; one of the younger warriors, a man with paler skin and black hair. “TIME TO GO!”

    Yaranh had already moved out, and before Henry could react, Kanhya ran up and hugged his waist tight. He knelt down to her, murmuring words of encouragement, of soothing, of reassurance…

    Royyan knelt too, introducing himself better, joking and making her giggle through her sorrow, and Henry felt his heart hurt suddenly, not wanting to leave this--

    “Henry,” the warrior called again. “We need to go now. Now.”

    Henry nodded, hugging the two of them and kissing each of their cheeks, standing and leaving. His lip trembled and he couldn’t bring himself to look back. He regretted it every second afterwards.

    Tears streamed down his dark face as the gates shut behind him and the monastery was shut. The warrior fell into place at his side, walking, trying to be a companion.

    “I really am sorry, Henry. But you’re our healer; you’re the most important one of the whole bunch.”

    Henry nodded, eyes dull, body heaving with tiny sobs.

    The warrior patted his back. “I-- really. Sorry… I’m Kristofer, by the way. I’ll help however I can--”

 

Kas stopped, feeling Sam start in her spot. The night had grown dark outside--but he wasn’t sure, the room perpetually dark and the wind unbearable outside, the storm still raging. Xairestraszas had curled back in his sling and was listening and snoozing off and on.

“You okay?”

Sam shivered hard. “I know that name. That party that came to Northrend.”

Kas blinked then nodded, pulling her into a soft, furry hug. “It’s late. We should sleep. It should be better by the morning; if not, we can at least clear some out.”

Sam nodded, still trembling, and Kas grunted, getting one thick cloak on the ground as a bed and pulling her onto it with him, curling up holding her, a big fluffy warm wolf, pulling another cloak over them as a blanket. Whether she slept soon enough or not, he didn’t know--he fell asleep easily, the remembrance of all those scars bringing back old pains.


	10. The End of the Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions mount higher and higher, drawing in a group of five against an army. Win or lose, the fight against the Underground ends here.

Kas woke up finally to the sound of the wind pounding against the dark building. His furry ear twitched and he listened hard; the storm was still raging. They weren’t going anywhere today. Great.

Xairestraszas was huddled close in the extra-padded sling, and every so often Kas could feel its little legs kick and curl. He brought up a paw, patting the bundle on his chest absentmindedly, and looked over at Sam.

The human woman was breathing slow, evidently still asleep. She was snuggled close against his warm wolf body, head resting in the crook of his arm at his shoulder. Her form curved and draped ever so at his side, and Kas thought in silence about nothing in particular, watching her rest. His arm brought her in slightly tighter--for warmth only, of course--and he pulled the heavy cloak serving as their blanket up, tucking it around the back of her neck.

Kas looked back up at the ceiling, unsure of the time or when the miserable storm outside would end. He shut his eyes and took a long breath, trying to sleep again, but he was awake.

Not too long later, while his mind wandered aimlessly from thought to thought, Xairestraszas squirmed and squawked for food. Kas opened his eyes again, looking down at the expectant whelpling, starting to shift his weight--pausing, glancing at Sam.

“Go on,” she mumbled from her comfortable perch, finally taking a deeper breath in and moving away from him to stretch. Kas moved out from under the cloak, wincing as his body lifted itself from the hard stone floor--the cloak underneath had done very little to pad it--and he got to his feet. He stretched, letting Xairestraszas out of the sling, and the whelpling squawked again, hungry and cold and finally stretching and flapping its wings.

“He’s grown a little,” Sam commented, still in a ball under the cloak. Kas looked around back at her, then at the whelpling. The dragon had started to grow--not much, but noticeably.

“Would you mind getting food for me too, Kas?”

“Mm.”

Kas moved over to their sack, just out of reach from the cloaks, and tugged it over to the makeshift bed, sitting back on his haunches. Xairestraszas got food first, and tore into the portions that Kas gave it, its serpentine head bobbing quickly along his paw. Kas gave it milk, burped it, and the whelpling cooed and squirmed its way into a playful ball against his warm chest.

Sam yawned and brushed her hair back, getting up enough to sit next to the worgen wolf-man, pulling the blanket-cloak around her. Her head thunked against one of Kas’s arms and she glanced up at him.

“You’re surprisingly comfy to sleep with.”

Kas glanced at her, blinking. She smiled slightly, face still weary with sleep, and got herself food. Kas did likewise.

The whelpling seemed the only one there that didn’t mind their frozen predicament. Kas and more especially Sam looked at the walls around them like a jail cell, and as the day started to drearily pass, they tried small talk on when they thought the damned snow would end. Sam murmured that sometimes it went on for weeks, and fell silent. Kas said nothing, focusing his efforts on keeping the dragon entertained. Xairestraszas wandered about the room, sniffing at everything and finding unsavory scents to gag at, pranced away when Kas tried to call him over, and spent a good ten minutes squeaking in delight as the worgen chased him. Sam watched with growing bemusement at the pair, the dragon proving to be very slippery and almost starting to fly, getting off the ground for a good ten feet before it crashed back to its legs.

Finally though, Kas did catch the lizard back up in his arms and it nuzzled in against him again, tired and yawning and cooing. Kas wandered back to bed, nothing else to do, and fell on his back again. Sam snuggled herself to his side, putting an arm around his chest, giving him a warning glance not to say a word. Kas stayed quiet. For warmth, obviously.

After listening to the wind howl outside another long few minutes, Sam finally said:

“Storytime?”

Xairestraszas perked his head up, looking at Kas expectantly, perched in a comfortable ball on his chest under the blanket. Kas blinked, then nodded and started:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    After District 4, a few things were apparent. The first: that Kas and Tanlia were to be taken as serious threats to the Gilnean Underground, instead of nuisances killing the easy, unguarded prey. The second: that they were alone in their endeavors, since Garrett proved to be the right-hand guard to King Genn. As a result of that prestige, he’d have access to all places, all information, and could do almost anything without Greymane questioning it too thoroughly, as long as he had sufficient reasoning--which Garrett was a master at having.

    Before Garrett could come for Kelleniana’s home, where he knew now the two rogues were hastily retreating to, and crush their rebellion once and for all, something else happened that tore his attention away and offered them a critical window to prepare. The monastery that Kanhya had stayed at went up in flames of black fire.

 

<The Burning Monastery, and Kanhya’s Savior>

    With Henry Barastos gone to fight in Northrend’s war and Ellanora and Gabrielle Smith forbidden from staying over in the monastery after dark, Kanhya was left without friend or refuge. For how long, no one was sure; the battle might turn in Northrend before Henry got there--hell, he might come back within the hour. But as night wore on into the solitary hours before dawn and District 4’s dock blazed in the distance with cannon-fire, Biedt, the most outspoken of the priests regarding uneasiness about Kanhya’s powers, got far too into his drinks.

    He sat alone finally, thinking, having drank all night because he could. The girl was a monster: the product of sin, gifted with the powers of Shadow before Light. An abomination, as he muttered to himself, alone in the mess hall. An utter abomination.

    Better then that she be purged from the world, lest they have to spend Gods knew how many more weeks with her there. What if she had an outburst and that saintly prick Barastos wasn’t there to calm her, hm?

    “And punch my nose again,” Biedt grumbled, downing more drink.

    He made up his mind. She was a little girl; she was in bed at this hour of the night. Everyone was. And her room was just as accessible as any other. He could very easily get in, smother her with her pillow, and leave.

    And no one would ever know.

    Biedt looked down at his cup, thinking. The girl was a freak, yes, but did he want blood on his hands? She was just a child--

    A child that would grow up and get even more powerful, dammit! A child that would take over the monastery without anyone to stop her; a demon in the form of a woman! He’d be doing the world a service, ridding it of her.

    Biedt grunted and got up, swaying, making his way out into the darkened hall. The stones around him arched, cold and dry and as sterile as monastic life. Biedt shuffled along, knowing well how to keep his footfalls quiet, and moved to the stairs, ascending with heaves upwards. He wandered through the next hall, turned, and through another, the doors closed to him, wooden, waiting. Hell, he thought, he could do whatever he wanted to anyone there. Maybe he would, he thought with a smile--but the girl first. She had to go.

    He got to the door to her room, far removed from the rest of the others, save where Henry stayed. Of course she was removed from the rest, Biedt thought; they all knew how dangerous she was! No one would be too sad without her--

    He got to her door and paused, swaying on his feet. Did he really want to do this? Yes--of course; she was--

    No, did _he_ really want to do this?

    Biedt paused, frowning. Beyond whether it was right or wrong for the monastery, for the future--yes, he thought, eyes narrowing. Yes, he very much wanted to do this. He wanted the girl dead, and he wanted to be there to see Henry’s smug face finally fall. Something that finally got under that rat bastard’s dark skin. Oh, that’d be wonderful.

    Biedt quietly went in.

    Kanhya kept her room nice and tidy. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was that she was tucked into bed and fast asleep. Good, he thought; this will at least be quick.

    Biedt made his way over to the girl’s bedside, watching her carefully. He hadn’t made a sound, and she hadn’t woken up. He took a breath, then eased a hand under her head, cradling it enough to pull the pillow out from under her red hair. He eased her head down to the mattress, licking his lips, the pillow in his hands--

    He pressed it down over her face, holding firm.

    Her body quivered under the blanket then jerked hard. Biedt clambered into the bed, straddling her smaller form, pinning her down so her arms couldn’t get free. Kanhya woke up yelping, loud but muffled, trying to get air, frantic and terrified--

    The room around him shuddered. Biedt glanced around, blinking, confused--

    An explosion BOOMed out through the Gilnean night as the upper floor of the monastery disintegrated with force. The priests scrambled, waking up in a panic, sprinting to get downstairs as the stones around them shook and shattered into pieces. Glass windows became airborne daggers as panes burst into hundreds of fragments, and yells of commotion filled the air along with a low groan of terrible power. The rabble of terrified humanity glanced behind them, seeing hung in the air a little girl with glowing black eyes and red air, whipping wildly as if it were in a windstorm, her gaze focused on the figure of a man arching in the clutches of her shadow--the power rippling around him tearing off muscle from the skeleton and breaking the bone into brittle ash--

    The air went still then another explosion rocked the monastery, setting the cold rocks ablaze with Shadow fire, viciously hot and licking upwards in curving sinister tongues, black with white outlines--behind the running priests, Kanhya floated where her room once was, where all she had once was, and she looked slowly down at them with great and furious eyes--

    Garrett had straightened on the dock, eyes narrowed as he watched Tanlia swim away fast with Kas’s aching body clutched to her. Genn had given the orders; he could go to Kelleniana’s home and get them. He’d kill them, of course; probably the little witch too. It might cost him his position--he’d have to have another guard take the fall--

    The two monastic explosions reached their ears, and they all turned sharply.

    “What the hell was that?” Genn murmured, frowning, scanning the houses of District 4 as if they would tell him. He turned sharply to his guard-captain. “Another attack set off by the Ghost, do you think?”

    Garrett’s brows furrowed sharply. “No, sir. Too far away; not part of this district--but very bad and very powerful.” Dammit, he thought; if he didn’t follow the rogues now--

    “Sir, I can investigate that or I can go after Kaskaeld and Tanlia. I cannot do both.”

    Genn frowned, looking at the skyline again. “Go see what that was,” he said finally. “I’ll go to Kelleniana’s home myself; she might listen to me more than you, and I don’t want you to be attacked trying to get those rogues. Those explosions sounded far more serious.”

    Garrett bit back a snarl and bowed his head. “Sir.”

    He moved back quickly to his guards, giving them instructions in the quickest and quietest terms possible, then mounted up, drawing a small group to come with him, and bid his horse ride fast. Genn mounted up and did the same, splitting off to go see the little warlock.

    As Genn Greymane made his way to Kelleniana’s home down the rocky coastline of the peninsula, Garrett headed the other direction, just past the city barriers towards the northern cliffs, where there was suddenly much more of a clamor as so many people had woken up. Garrett pondered what on Azeroth had made such a booming noise… and how much they could exploit it. They’d have to get there fast, and so the guards rode on quick--but unbeknownst to them, someone else was riding quicker.

    Royyan Smith, as soon as the guards had left for the night and he was off-duty, had gone home and sat in bed, unsure what he wanted. He wanted to go help the cause in Northrend--but more than that--

    More than that, he wanted Henry to be safe.

    He rubbed his hands over his face, laid back, and was blessed that night with terrible insomnia that kept him active enough to bolt out of bed as soon as the explosions rocketed out through the land. He didn’t need to guess what they were; he knew where they were from and had heard Henry comment so many times that Kanhya was potentially dangerous--and with so many rogues about, better to get there first--

    Royyan got to the blazing building before anyone else outside of the few neighboring farmers that stood terrified at the evil omen. The priests outside trembled and murmured prayers, and the young warrior man brushed past them easily, getting through the crowd and inside the blazing archway to see the magnitude of destruction.

    The whole area had become the courtyard to a perimeter of melting stones, and little more. A few wooden beams stood towering above, like skeletal fingers arching into the night air, but the whole place was utterly decimated. In the center of it all, passed out on the ground by a pile of ash with a chunk of bone still sticking out of it, was Kanhya. Alone in the ruins as she had been when the place was built up.

    Royyan rushed to her, throwing his traveling cloak about her limp, softly breathing form, and hoisted her up into his arms, having had much experience from carting his two younger sisters to bed. He carried her out of the burning archway--

    --as Garrett rode up, surveying and quickly frowning, eyes taking on an animated fervor few had seen in them. Garrett was a calm and collected man, but as he witnessed such destruction--the weapon that must have caused this--! It had to be theirs--

    Royyan saw the look in the superior officer’s eyes and some glint of wisdom in his gut told him to move away as quick as possible. He did so, keeping his head down, blending into the crowd as just another man huddled in his clothes as the rogue captain sprinted to the archway, looking on in awe. The inferno didn’t deter him as he went in, looking on--coming out with a beaming grin, going to the abbot, an older man looking on in fear and dismay--

    “What happened here? Quickly, man; what happened?”

    The abbot looked to Garrett weakly then back at the burning building. There was a sound of hooves falling away into the night, but that didn’t matter: all that mattered was finding this weapon--

    “Kanhya,” he managed.

    Garrett blinked and then frowned. “What-- What is ‘Kanhya?’”

    The abbot shook his head slowly. “A little girl.. A demon child wielding the power of Shadow.”

    “Where is she--?” Garrett asked, looking back through the burning arch. There was nothing left there; he knew that without needing too close an inspection--

    “Your man just brought her out, sir,” the abbot said, confused.

    Garrett swiveled about sharply, eyes searing into him. The abbot took a step back, and the captain advanced.

    “Who took her?”

    “Royyan, sir,” the abbot said, shrinking back. “He brought her out as you came up. On your orders, sir?”

    Garrett’s ear twitched and he let up, looking through the crowd. The name was familiar; the fellow was a grunt. A worthless little body tossed into combat so that the other side had a harder time winning. A nobody, not worth the Underground ever paying him the slightest bit of attention-- Everyone there in the crowd was looking on, he couldn’t be here--

    The hooves.

    He muttered a curse and turned to the abbot--pausing--if he asked where Royyan lived, that might arouse suspicions on the true nature of everyone’s purpose there. If this insignificant warrior could waltz in and take her, they must know him there; he must know her. He wouldn’t know of the weaponized potential for himself--and if he had such grand aspirations, he would’ve been found out before, surely.

    Which meant then that if Garrett hadn’t ordered him to, he’d still be in the right, but then what were Garrett’s motivations in finding them--

    “Yes, under my orders,” Garrett managed, his head whirling with a thousand thoughts. Perhaps he could’ve asked the abbot--but too late, as he moved back to his guards, murmuring.

    “Mount up, find Royyan, find Kanhya. Kill him: take her.”

    Three guards nodded and mounted up, urging their horses on into the night. Garrett stayed put, directing the retrieval of water, knowing it was a fruitless effort to try and save the already-ruined building, but he had to personally put on a good show to maintain his reputation and admirable position.

    Royyan got to his home with Kanhya and went in quickly. He set her down on the couch and took the stairs two at a time, making as much noise as possible--

    Avern, his father, met him in the hallway, coming out of his room with an angry grunt, rubbing his face. Bathing hadn’t taken away all the soot from his arms; despite his years and white hair, the elder Smith was (as his name suggested) a blacksmith and silversmith.

    “What in the name of the Gods are you doing, Roy?” Avern grumbled, blinking his squinty eyes to try and force back sleep. “First there’s all that noise outside from the mountains and now you’re coming in like a bleedin’ bear trampling all over everything--”

    “Pack up,” Royyan said breathlessly, starting to move past him.

    Avern frowned and grabbed his arm. “Pack-- What in blazes d’you mean ‘pack up,’ Roy?”

    “I mean _pack_! And quickly, man!” Royyan said with a desperate intensity. His father blinked and let go of him, and in the doorway, his mother Roselie poked her head out, similarly tired. “There’s no time to explain, father, really: there’s a girl downstairs that people are hunting for and I’m going to keep her safe, but they’ll find us all here so pack up _now_ , _we have to go_.”

    Avern turned and ushered Roselie quickly back into their room, getting to work promptly and pulling what essentials there were. Royyan sprinted to Ellanora and Gabrielle’s room, rousing them up and half dragging them to their feet, helping them pack, finding what meager possessions he had and throwing them haphazardly into a carrying sack--

    The children came downstairs to find their parents tending to Kanhya, pressing a cool wet cloth to her head. As soon as Royyan came into the room, they stopped, and Avern hoisted the unknown girl with her fiery hair into his arms. They left through the backdoor, and out into the night only three minutes before Garrett’s men knocked on their door.

 

<The Burning House, and a Plea>

    Genn Greymane, meanwhile, rode with the guards down the Gilnean coastline. The water was smooth and dipped out past the rocks into a sweet indigo ocean. The woods threatened to envelop them, but there was a dim, focused path cut through in the moonlight. The guards with him were focused and alert, despite the lateness of the hour. Genn himself was combating sleep, but he trusted in his guards; if he didn’t, how could he do anything?

    The path to Kelleniana’s was one he’d heard about many times from the old man that got her supplies, but one he had never traveled down himself. The girl had never requested him, and as embarrassing as it was to admit it, there was a certain dread that Genn felt regarding the little warlock’s powers. She did not mean him any direct harm when she’d met him--but she was very clear about wanting to be left alone, especially by men.

    Still, Tanlia and most especially Kaskaeld were dangerous rogues. He alone had taken out a full shipyard--and he refused to be governed. If he were a guard, Genn would have promoted him for such steadfastness, determination, and valor: he was, however, an assassin that proved to be more dangerous than those he was hunting down.

    And one that knew quite a few political secrets, if he’d been so subtle among the crowd for so long.

    Genn grimaced, pulling his cloak tighter, urging the horse to move quicker along the barren path. This whole situation was a mess--but he was a king, and as such a diplomat as much as a general. They’d sort this out. Tonight. There was no need for bloodshed--especially on Kelleniana’s property.

    The moonlight licked through the tops of the trees as the party wove deeper and deeper through the woods. There was the sweet sound of cicadas as they passed rows of bushes, and Genn thought blissfully that this would’ve almost been a nice excursion to take Mia along with. Perhaps another night, they could come this way.

    The path widened into a clearing, and Genn slowed his horse to a trot, then a stop, the guards behind him following suit.

    Kelleniana’s shack was impressive for being so far from civilization, and just as eerie as it seemed inviting. A lantern was burning on a hook next to the doorway, and a fire crackled inside, blowing billows of black smoke up through the chimney. Genn hopped off his horse and started on foot--if anything happened, it was better the horses were further away. They might not get as startled, or at least not as injured.

    The King made his way towards the door, his guards following on-foot, and prepared to knock as the door opened. The auburn-haired girl stepped out, closing it again, and stood fast in the doorway, her eyes hidden behind fallen bangs of hair and the hood of her heavy cloak.

    “What do you want?” Kelleniana asked in a cold voice, far too crisp and alert for one so young still. And yet, Genn thought to himself, she was getting older each day. She was certainly far more a young woman than when she had first come into view in his life--

    “Lady Kelleniana,” Genn Greymane said with a low, respectful bow. The guards held steadfast, tense. Genn straightened, taking a deep breath, trying to sound as calm and friendly as he could manage. “I know that you’re keeping the company of two rogues with you. I’ve come to detain them: _not_ to kill either of them, but to take them to cells so that they do not continue this vigilantism any further. I would be happy to talk to both and to help them in their endeavors as a law-abiding procedure, but this cannot continue as is.”

    Kelleniana stood quiet. Genn stayed where he was, watching her. The guards--five of them, Genn thought; six on four--stood quietly behind him in a row branching out.

    When finally no answer came to him save the wind, Genn took a step forward. “Kelleniana. Please; I don’t have any quarrel with you--I want nothing but to help you survive out here. I don’t want this to be difficult.”

    The girl still didn’t move. His guards advanced step by step behind him.

    “Kell,” the King said gently, putting a gloved hand out. “Please… As a father. As a friend. I don’t want to force the matter, but I need to take them in.”

    Behind him, one guard shifted, the youngest one, tensing and gripping the handle of his new blunderbuss. The rest readied their hands by their own.

    “And what do your guards need, King Greymane?”

    Genn frowned. “What do you--?”

    Kelleniana raised her head, the bangs falling from her tan face--exposing the golden eyes of a demon rather than the girl’s green ones. Her face shifted quickly, her body growing back into the form of Nazwena the succubus, the guard--

    The youngest guard pulled out his gun, aiming--

    From under the cloak, Naz cracked out a black leather whip, sending a lash of bright red burning up the man’s hand. He yelped and dropped the weapon, the other four unholstering theirs, one raising an arm behind Genn to hit his head and knock him unconscious--

    Genn darted back in alarm, the plated gauntlet cracking down onto his shoulder instead, the force of it and the angle perfect to send a sharp pain up Genn’s neck to his head. His arm lost all tension and he stumbled backwards towards the succubus and the shack door as the guards readied their weapons--

    Nazwena’s slim arms wrapped around his broad chest--

    She pulled him back into the house, slamming the door shut and falling to the smooth rug with him as bullets cracked through the wood. Through the pain of a broken collarbone, Genn glanced around, making out the forms of the real Kelleniana, Tanlia, and Kaskaeld all lying low as the wood splintered in with a fury of sound.

    The world quieted again and Genn heard the guards bark orders, surrounding the house and advancing, reloading their weapons--

    Kell started for the door, growling, and instinct took over in the king, grabbing her and pulling her back, placing his body between her and the door. The witch-girl stopped in surprise, her eyebrows raising; the _insolence_ that he would--but she paused, blinking again, seeing him look around at the door, listening, guarding her.

    She’d only had enough time to tend to the more serious of Kaskaeld’s wounds, and while he was stabilized he was by no means set for battle at all. A firm boot planted itself in the door and rattled the remaining wood in the frame--but it was thick enough that the door stayed standing, at least a few moments longer--

    Tanlia darted to Naz’s side and grinned, flashing her daggers. “How do we want to do this, then? Windows; door--?”

    Another hail of bullets shot through the house, and the group flattened back to the ground.

    “Gunnar--dynamite!”

    The shout from outside brought them all into focus. There was the sound of sprinting--of a crackle of a match catching flame--

    “Damnation--” Kelleniana growled, then grit her teeth, grabbing Genn roughly and dragging him over towards Kas. Naz grabbed Tanlia, doing the same--

    The door was kicked in with another firm boot, and a stick of lit explosives came in--

    Kell grabbed the party and roared a spell, hurling them into the shadows through a gate. Genn didn’t have enough time to realize what was happening, just that the world went black and purple and green and utterly cold--and then they were up staring at trees--

    An explosion rocked the forest around them and Genn pushed Kell down again, shielding her from the wind of the blast. The roar echoed and birds shrieked and flew away in alarm. Their ears rang--but they made out a low crackling sound--

    Genn glanced back, alert. They were up a hillside behind Kelleniana’s home, which was nothing more now than a smoldering heap of wood and stones, charred and blazing up into the foliage.

    “Gods, Gunnar!” Genn faintly heard over the inferno and the ringing in his head, “What on Azeroth was in that one?!”

    “The new stuff!” Gunnar called out, brushing soot off his armor. “The import from Ironforge, mate--I told you those short gits made good weaponry! Shame about Genn--maybe his kid’ll be more lenient with the trade, eh? No more sneaking about, d’you think?”

    “Forget about that!” a third said, voice darker. “Make sure they’re dead, before you go mourning.”

    The group assented and started in towards the house again. Genn growled, starting down towards them; how to approach five at once without the use of his arm--

    Before the question arose, Kelleniana sprinted past him.

    He tried to grab for her, too late--her cloak slipped past his fingers. He started to run after her, but Tanlia grabbed him from behind forcefully, yanking him back.

    “Let’s not actually see you die, sire, eh?” the rogue said, tugging him backward still--

    “YOU--” Kelleniana said, voice booming throughout the clearing, the men turning to her and stumbling back-- “BURNED-- MY-- HOME!”

    Before he could do anything more, Genn was flattened back by another wave of heat rippling out, this one however groaning through the wilderness and making him feel sick to his stomach. He put his good hand up to his face, trying to see past it--

    The guards shrieks filled the heat-rippling air, a huge bonfire dancing throughout the clearing. Their guns burst in their hands; the horses whinnied and reared up in fright--

    And in the center of it all, the figure of a little girl, arms held up to call down fiery murder.

    Genn winced as another wave of heat emanated from her--and it was over. He dropped his arm, then raised it again to wipe a slick layer of sweat from his forehead. Behind him, Nazwena moved around, putting her slender hands along his shoulder.

    “Here, King~” the succubus purred, pressing along the broken bone, darkness weaving strands along her fingers--

    Genn hissed and winced hard, a dull pain in his shoulder--but he could move his arm again. He curled a fist, relaxed again, and glanced uneasily at the demon, nodding his thanks. She gave him quite the smile.

    “Thank you,” he murmured, looking around to the rogues. Tanlia hoisted Kaskaeld off the ground, supporting him with his arm around her shoulder, and looked politely into Genn’s face.

    Genn turned to see where Kelleniana had gone to--

    --only to find the girl stalking up the hill back to them, stopping in front of the King and piercing him with her gaze.

    In short, he was surrounded.

    Genn straightened his back and took a sharp breath. “On my life, Lady Kelleniana, I did not come here intending to harm you in any way, much less this.”

    “I don’t believe you did,” she replied simply, nodding then to the rogues: “You came to imprison them, right?”

    Genn sighed. “Yes.”

    “Why would I ever let you do that?”

    “To heal him, for one thing,” Genn said, looking over to the Ghost of Gilneas, whose white armor was dried scarlet and who sported a numerous amount of slices through the deermane.

    “I can heal him myself,” the girl replied.

    “Then because it’s the right thing for me to do,” Genn said coldly, starting to match her animosity as he stared at her again. He took a breath and straightened himself again, finding the exhaustion of the hour causing him to slump more and more. “Perhaps you do not know this, you four, because you’re out here, or huddled in safehouses in the city, or only seeing these people as villains--but you are damaging far more than you know. And before you take me the wrong way: I do agree with you. I agree that there is a problem; I’ve been trying to root it out myself, along with everything else I’ve had to do as a King, but it never reached the top of my priorities because it did not impact the same amount of lives as crop failures and civil war do.

    “Beyond your assassinations, Mr. Remor, there are families and there are businesses. There are farms, and starving men and women without anyone to help them. And I do not hear everything promptly; the Lords may not hear everything promptly, and when one family starves their neighbors are next, and their neighbors, and the whole damned district. I tried many times to contact you; to tell you that I’m willing to offer help if we can take them in to be tried--during which time I _know_ who is detained so I can send out provisions for the family and for their businesses. But since you’ve persisted, we’ve now got about seven hundred people and counting without guards, grain, or income.

    “There is more at stake than your fight here. I want to get rid of this plague on Gilneas, but it cannot cause another one in its wake!”

    Genn turned between them all. Kelleniana stood there blankly; Nazwena tilted her head as if listening to a child speak; Tanlia looked sorrowful; Kaskaeld glowered.

    “Listen to me,” the King pleaded, looking to the rogues. “Please. I am a proud man, and I do not beg, but I am begging now. To these people; to my nation, all you are doing is killing. They do not know that their husbands and wives; their fathers and mothers, are part of this evil organization. All they know is that you have killed them, seemingly without reason, and that everything now is off-kilter. Poison will grow in their hearts; distrust for everyone they meet who isn’t part of their family, because it is a closely-guarded secret who this ‘Ghost’ is, and to them it could be anyone. You will grow this next generation into monsters, who will fall, divided and alone.

    “Gilneas only survives on the strength of its people. On the strength of _unity_. _Please_ , I implore you, let me help. And we will do this the _right way_.”

    Genn Greymane held out a hand.

    The forest was quiet, save the crackling fire of Kelleniana’s home burning down.

    Tanlia looked over at Kas. Kell did too. Naz as well. Everyone; all eyes on the man who had started, with his vengeance ever-burning.

    “Garrett taught me,” Kaskaeld said finally. “You want to take out the head? Imprison him. And I’ll know you mean what you say.”

    Genn lowered his hand slightly and frowned.

    “Garrett’s-- Garrett is a double-agent. He’s a man I sent into the Underground, as an informer. He works behind the scenes with them, and it’s from him I learn most of what they do.”

    “And did you learn about the shipment coming in to District 4 tonight?” Kas asked tiredly.

    “No,” Genn replied. “He’s not omnipotent, in their ranks. And certainly not high enough to take on an apprentice, Mr. Remor. But he was able to tell me about you; about your past. About why you’re doing this--”

    “He has my sister,” Kas seethed, “and you believe he’s on your side--?”

    “I believe in a man who had my back throughout the Northgate Rebellion. I believe in a man I saw grow up before me; who I watched train as a warrior--not a rogue in the shadows--and who learned valor and respect. He’s been a guard with me the past twenty years, if not longer, and I’ve only had the chance to know you, sir, by reputation and by this short antagonistic conversation. I will _help you_ ; let me--”

    “If we do it your way, sire,” Kas said, “then I’ll die overnight in a cell and your guard captain will swear up and down he knew as little about it as he knew those guards were traitors. And yet there they were, directly under his command, not giving a damn whether they killed you or not. So, man of pride, go home. Go cling to what family you have. And don’t let on you’re actually a smart king, or they’ll come for you with all the vigor and hatred they came for me with.

    “Or maybe,” Kas said, staggering forward a step, eyes narrowing, “just maybe, I’ll have killed them all by then, and you can sort out your piddling mess about crops later with men and women who actually deserve to _live_.”

    Genn let his arm drop completely, and stood tall.

    “I didn’t want it to come to force, Mr. Remor.”

    “It’s one on four,” Kas said, voice low.

    “I’ve had worse odds--”

    Naz put a hand over the King’s heart and pressed her supple lips to his ear. Genn tensed--then fell strangely still. The rogues blinked, and Kell let out a sigh, sitting down on the hillside. Naz whispered something, then Genn turned, eyes dull, and rushed back to his horse.

    “What’d you do?” Tanlia asked, looking after him.

    “Defused the situation,” Naz said mildly. “Methinks the Queen’s going to have some fun tonight.”

    The succubus hummed, then looked to her sister. “What now, Kell?”

    “Now…” Kell started, stopped, and glanced at the rogues. “Now we find a new home.”

    The night wore on and on, and the rogues brought Kell and Naz into the city into one of the quietest safehouses they’d used on their journey, one that Tanlia hadn’t mentioned to Garrett or the guards when she had talked.

    Two years passed there until about nine months ago, with the Underground on edge and dying slowly, the foursome whittling them down person by person, safehouse by safehouse. Genn Greymane tightened the guards and rooted them out as best he could, but even Garrett eventually got nervous, and word was he had retreated finally to a tower built over the Underground’s colosseum, telling Greymane he was loyally training new troops specifically to root out the rogues, where he’d inevitably fortified and was ready to give a last stand. Where Katia surely was.

 

Kas paused. Hours had passed, and he yawned. Sam was resting her lovely head against his side, and the sound of rumbling stomachs filled the air. Xairestraszas was chewing mindlessly on his ever-smiling cow, watching the pair with wide, glistening eyes.

Kas got up and got them supper, taking the time to stretch his limbs while he did. The storm outside had abated--but not enough to go out yet. And they were surely snowed in, which they’d need to deal with. That’d be a joy.

“Kas?”

“Mm?” The worgen looked up from feeding his dragon child. Xairestraszas had moved the cow to a death-grip in his claws, gobbling down meat instead.

Samantha sat up, the cloak-blanket falling down her side. In the dim light, Kas could make out the faint outline of her form. “Could you finish your story tonight? It sounded like you were close to the end.”

Kas smiled lightly. “Not the complete end, but the end of the Underground, yes. One last big battle.”

“I want to hear it tonight. We’ve got nothing else to do; nowhere else to be.”

Kas chuckled, feeding the dragon and himself. “After supper. M’glad you’re finding it such an enthralling story.”

Sam shrugged. “All my tales are unrelated adventures; it’s interesting to see the progression.”

They ate and were as content as they could be in the depressing obelisk, and bundled up together again in the makeshift bed for Kas to continue:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    Nine months ago, after five long years of war against what felt like the whole of Gilneas’s armies, the Underground were forced back into a final refuge. Bladesman’s Tower, towards the outskirts of Gilneas City, resided over the colosseum where Kas had been inducted into his new life. It was an armory, where Garrett outfitted and housed many of his most loyal men. Each floor was said to be open; a place where people sparred, and those who won consistently tested their skills at higher floors. Garrett himself resided on the top floor, and those that bested all others returned to lower floors, themselves bested, to teach rather than strive to beat their leader.

    It was a game of death, designed to keep the odds ever against its players.

    Kaskaeld had newly turned 21. Tanlia was 26, Kelleniana 19, Nazwena 356 though she perpetually looked alluringly young. Tensions had mounted between the women, with the maturing warlock taking a fierce liking to the older rogue, though Tanny was subject more to Naz’s lures. Kaskaeld kept his head down and stayed mostly to himself, not wanting any part of their drama.

    Kanhya, now 13, had lived merrily with Ellanora (19) and Gabrielle (10) Smith, alongside their older brother Royyan, 24. They had laid low, helped out by friends, but nonetheless eventually the Underground’s stragglers had caught wind of them. Garrett was still deeply interested in capturing the shadow priestess, and as a result Royyan had fended off invaders into the small neighborhood of farmers sheltering the Smiths from the Underground. Having gotten a better name for himself unintentionally, he asked for help from the Ghost of Gilneas and those allied with him--the only ones seeming to make a dent in the ranks of the thieves and villains.

    When the next wave attacked the neighborhood, Royyan fought them off--but not alone. Kaskaeld had followed them, and, while a tense conversation, the situation was explained on both sides--though Kas did not know until later who Kanhya really was, as Royyan declined naming her. Royyan bid his family a brief farewell and came into the fold with the women as the plans drew together to fight the last fight.

 

<The Assault on Bladesman’s Tower>

    It was, unsurprisingly, a grey, rainy nightfall in Gilneas, as it was every night and as it would eternally be. The party of five walked without care through the street; no one was out to see them, and anyone that was would’ve moved immediately.

    Kas’s white armor shined, repaired as it had been again and again, daggers sheathed, a spot of brightness in the rain. His cowl covered his long red hair and the start of a bushy bit of facial hair.

    Tanlia walked grimly next to him, lithe in her leathers as black as her hair, red eyes piercing through the splattering rain. A large hat covered her head from the storm, but little else, and her armor glistened, ready for battle.

    Royyan stood next to her, in heavy grim plate, a large sword at his hip and a larger shield at his back, a dark helmet covering his features, heart pounding but mind made up that this was worth risking everything. If Henry was doing it, off to war for the country, then by the Gods Henry shouldn’t come back to a country demolished by the worst immoral scum imaginable. This would be a fight to remember.

    On Kaskaeld’s other side, Kelleniana walked quietly, a heavy cloak covering her robes and keeping her dry. The young woman strode fearlessly alongside her friends, her green eyes narrowing as the tower came into view throughout the mist above, looming like a great giant force of nature, prepared to crush them.

    Next to her, finally, was Nazwena, a heavier cloak covering her succubus form, the rain not bothering her, her mind wandering occasionally to the new conflict with her sister over Tanlia, wondering if that might get in the way of the fight--but stiffening, remembering not to swish her tail under the cloak so no one looked too closely at her, golden eyes narrowing seeing the guards at the tower’s front gate.

    The party stopped. The rain poured down.

    The door to the tower was accessible to anyone--but a ground of guards stood tall and heavily-armored at all times, waiting and watching. Six of them visible, at least another six inside, Kas thought to himself. No reason to go in stealthily: the fight would make noise and alert the tower floor by floor. This was the best entrance: they’d brute force their way through.

    Win or lose, it all came down to this.

    The guards stiffened, seeing the quintet, registering the white armor. They dropped into readied stances, spears held out, swords sheathed, shields on their backs, using their ranged attacks first--

    Waiting calmly at the door. A high stone wall surrounded the tower on every side except this entrance. Aside from the colosseum below, this was all there was. The chokehold. And the rogues would have to come through it.

    Royyan started forward calmly. The party glanced at him, letting him go. He was a warrior, after all; he was used to taking charge…

    The plated man built up a jog--faster, towards the spears--faster--building up to a sprint--!

    The rogues fell in quickly behind him as the tower guards readied themselves--

    Quick as lightning, one of the guards jabbed his spear forward at the eyeholes in Royyan’s helmet--and quicker still, the young warrior dodged, twisting himself around in a circle so that the shield on his back took the weight of the blow, turning and deflecting it as he unsheathed his sword--

    The warrior fell upon the guard with his blade out, the surprised guard ducking back and barely getting his sword up in time from its sheath to block a nearly fatal blow. The sound of metal rang out in the rain, rippling and true, and all things fell still for a breath--

    The other guards charged at Royyan, spears stabbing forwards, but before they could reach him the rest of the small assaulting party reached them: Kas and Tanny ducking under the first few and taking the back half by surprise, Kell and Naz hurling bolts of fire and fel at the nearest ones. The guards blocked the fire, giving Royyan another chance to swing hard, almost knocking the sword from his opponent’s hands--and behind them, Kas toppled one of the surprised men, sticking him in the shoulder but missing the head--pushed off of him hard; the Ghost tucked and rolled, sprinting over to Tanlia’s side, kicking out one of her unfortunate target’s legs as she batted his sword away and stabbed him hard through the ribs.

    Two guards rushed out of the choke towards the warlock and her succubus sister. Kell took a step back, coaxing them onwards, then brought down a rain of fire into their path, searing against their armor, staggering them long enough for Naz to lash her whip out, catching one around the neck tight. The man coughed and reached for the impromptu noose, but Naz tugged him sharply forward to his hands and knees, jumping quickly up behind him and yanking the rope upwards hard, wincing hearing the CRACK!

    The rain of fire ended, and the other guard snarled and charged--

    --into a large bolt of green felfire, knocking him back off his feet into a smoldering heap on the ground.

    The guard fighting Royyan ducked, stabbing his sword up for the warrior’s guts, and the young Gilnean twirled, bringing his arms up and driving the hilt down into the man’s thick helmet. A loud CLANG! and the guard dropped, dazed, regaining his senses enough to swing at Royyan’s legs--

    Roy brought the sword down with a yell, severing the man’s head from his body.

    Thunder cracked through the sky with a flash of light, and Royyan shivered and winced. The life lost was unfortunate--perhaps unnecessary--but grimly needed for the situation. He shut his eyes a moment and shuddered, while Kas and Tanlia took care of the last two guards of the immediate six. Behind closed eyes, Roy heard the screams cut short, and the slump of bodies.

    No time to mourn or feel guilty though, as the stampede of feet met his ears, and the war cries of another six came ringing out--

    Roy’s eyes snapped open and he heaved the shield from his back, sliding his arm deftly through the straps and hoisting it up, his sword at the ready in the other. The incoming forces charged, and Kas and Tanny fell back with lithe steps, darting behind their warrior--

    Roy stiffened and held fast, meeting one huge sword’s swing with his shield, sinking his knees with the weight of the overhead blow--throwing his arm aside and casting off the blade, stabbing his forward to catch his assailant through the ribs--

    The guard roared and parried it with a second sword--equally as large as the first--and slashed forward. Roy ducked behind the shield, bracing it against his shoulder, then pounced in, knocking the warrior back a step--

    A slender foot tapped Roy’s shoulder, and Tanlia leapt from him, soaring like a beautiful raven in black over the oncoming guardsmen and slamming the furthest onto his back, pinning him and ripping her daggers along his neck. Kas followed suit, dancing around the edge of the choke along the walls, joining Tanlia before any of the guards could single her out, working at the backline--

    Roy held fast, shield taking hit after hit as the furious warrior slashed at him, forcing him back step by step--Roy’s sword stabbing out wildly and blindly, trying to make space at least, if not land a hit--

    Naz’s whip cracked into the face of a warrior trying to flank around Roy’s side, and Kell lit him ablaze before he could rub his eyes. The distraction worked to give Roy the room he needed, and the young warrior charged, ducking under one slash and bashing his shield into the side of the twin-sworded man’s helmet, piercing his chest with a stab underneath his guard--

    Two tackled Roy to the ground, one slashing along his shoulder. Roy curled and kicked up, throwing one off, but the other straddled him, raising the sword to stab through his head--

    Naz’s whip cracked out, catching the guard’s arm, and before he could pull the rope off, her hoof cracked into the flat side of his jaw. The man sprawled away, dazed but slashing at them--jerking and going still as Tanlia pierced him from behind. With surprisingly strength, the succubus hoisted Roy to his feet--

    “All of us out here and _you’re_ the one with someone on top of you?” Naz said with a wry grin, glancing down at her slender, barely-clothed form under the cloak. “What am I, rotten flesh?”

    Roy snorted. “Save it; he wasn’t my type.”

    She laughed, and they dashed up to meet the fray:

    The last three had formed a semi-circle around Kas, slicing at him viciously, and while they were only a few paces away, Roy thought grimly that it was too late to save the Ghost--but as they moved to him, Kas ducked under one, slicing through a belly, arched over a sword with a half-flip mid-air, cracking his boot into the second’s temple, and on regaining his footing spun around the stab of the third, bringing a dagger around into the man’s temple. As two fell, Kas went after the dazed one, ending his life with a harsh thrust.

    The outside guards fell. Kas turned his face towards the rest of his party; no wounds among them, save the shoulder Roy was rolling with a mild wince. Good. He turned wordlessly and went inside, eyes shut.

    The rest followed grimly, Roy especially unnerved seeing the Ghost in action.

    Inside, a large foyer, with stairs leading up and stairs leading down. Up was where they wanted--

    Guards poured in from both directions: the armory above and the colosseum below. Kas and the rest caught their breath while they could--the ranks filling in, more than they could count--filling half of the room before it stopped.

    Five against a small army.

    Kas turned his face over his shoulder, speaking quietly to the rest of them: “If you want to leave, go now.”

    None moved--then Roy turned, going to the door. Kas waited, listening--

    The warrior grabbed the huge wooden door, heaving and slamming it shut, then rejoined his companions.

    Under the white mask, Kas smiled to himself, then turned back to the opposing force, standing taller.

    “Anyone else coming?” he called out to the guards.

    One stepped to the front, the guard-captain of this group, apparently. “Everyone’s here. We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Remor.”

    Good, Kas thought. No need to weed out any stragglers down in the colosseum, then.

    “Well,” Kas said, adjusting the grip on his daggers, “I sincerely hope I don’t disappoint.”

    The room waited a beat--then exploded into chaos. The guardsmen charged from all sides, and the two rogues vanished away, leaving Naz, Kell, and Roy to ready themselves--

    Roy dropped his weight, meeting the first guard by ducking under him and hoisting him off the ground, using his momentum and the shield and throwing him hard into the stiff oak wall. The man cracked into it, slumping into a dazed heap--

    The next two reached Roy as he stood again, and he blocked and parried for his life, taking the weight and the attention of the group--

    Naz and Kell held fast behind him, the succubus twirling her whip and lashing it out, keeping it dancing along snake-like and keeping the guards at bay as best she could--her sister kneeling to the ground, murmuring quick words to the darkness between and under the cobblestones--

    As the guards reached her, a great mass of shadow erupted upwards, knocking them back, and a thick-shouldered, vaguely humanoid shape rose up, groaning in a whisper but readying clawed hands to fight for her--

    The rogues reappeared at the side of the room, thrashing into the onslaught of men and disrupting their progress towards Roy. Their surprise earned them three quick kills, but more men turned to them, awarding them only nicks and cuts along their arms as they quickly worked their blades--

    Roy slashed the sword away from one guard long enough to rush in at him, too close to stab, wrapping the surprised guard up in a tight hug, lifting him up and throwing him roughly into the stone floor, stomping against his temple before he could catch breath--quickly slashing away another incoming strike--

    Naz whip cracked out, wrapping around one neck and yanking the man off his feet and into a whirl, but as he crashed down on his shoulder another guard tackled the succubus down--

    Kell turned, hearing Naz’s yell, and before the guard could get more of an advantage Kell’s fists cracked along his helmet, sending him sprawling to the side. The warlock shook her hand in a wince, her knuckles unused to hitting and bruising, but Naz wasted no time, moving to the guard and planting her lips over his before he could move. The ones coming in stopped just a moment, puzzled--but a moment was all the succubus needed.

    Naz’s new pet got up, enthralled, and dashed into the onslaught, carving through one before the rest blocked him, surprised.

    “You all right?” Kell asked, looking at her older sister.

    “Oh fine, fine,” Naz commented mildly, wiping the disgusting taste from her lovely mouth.

    Kas and Tanlia were backing up fast, almost pressing to a wall--Kas growled, ducking back and goading one to come in, only to press forward and slam an elbow into his head--jumping around and wrapping him up in a headlock before he could recover, turning him into the blades of his comrades and pushing him forward as a shield, clearing them back--

    Tanlia parried fast, ducking under one arcing blade, blocking another with both of her daggers, leaving her back exposed--rolling out of the way as a spear came for her and landed in the body of another attacker. The spearer’s surprise gave her a moment, and being too far away she hurled a kick at him, catching his chest and doubling him over, raising her leg and slamming her heel into the back of his head, dropping him to the ground.

    Kas hurled the meat-shield into four oncoming men, following it quickly as they grappled; their weapons down--stabbing one through the eye and another through the neck before dodging back away from the longer slashes of the others--

    Roy held fast at the entrance, stabbing and slashing and blocking, but the numbers were far too much for one man to handle--a leg caught his, knocking him off-balance, and a mace cracked into his already-bruised shoulder. He yelped, his fingers jerking straight--letting go of his sword--the onslaught forcing him back a desperate step before he could fish it from the ground--

    The enthralled guard was knocked down without having done much, but the space granted Naz was perfect. Her whip cracked out again, catching one of Roy’s attackers by the leg and yanking him off-balance. Roy ducked under another’s swing and roared, back-arming the shield into his head with enough force to throw him off his feet into a third.

    Adrenaline coursed through the frenzied room; guards stabbing and slashing at Kell’s voidguard with noticeable effect, but not enough as it grabbed one by the head, crushing the life from him--at the other end of the room, Tanlia cracked her leg into one man’s temple, sending him rolling away, aiming for another only to be met with the broad side of a shield, staggering her back in pain--Kas parrying thrust after thrust of a talented spear but getting a sharp cut along his belly as he worked around it, charging the guard before he could get another blade out--

    The numbers seemingly endless, the fray continued--

    A guard charged in, aiming for Kelleniana past Roy and the voidguard’s defenses. The warlock backed up, surprised, avoiding the swing of a greatsword and even more narrowly avoiding it as it stabbed into the wall, almost impaling her small form--

    The guard grabbed her by the throat, easily two feet taller and vicious, snarling--

    Kell slammed her fists on his arm to no avail, then planted her feet in the guard’s chest, kicking hard, enough to make him stumble a step and ease up on her throat--

    He came in again just as quickly as he’d stumbled, plated fist connecting with her temple and sending her to the ground, head ringing--

    From across the room, Tanlia’s eyes widened, and she snarled, grabbing a short-sword and hurling it hard, the projectile blind-siding the warrior and only stopping hilt-deep through his throat. The action, though saving her, opened up Tanlia an instant--and the shield warrior hit her full-force in a rush, sending her slamming back into a wall--

    Kas rolled out of the way of a spear, darting back away from his group of men towards Tanlia’s, tackling one down behind the shield-guard, unable to do much more than land a quick, hard punch on the man’s nose before having to move again--

    The shield-guard turned in time to block the rogue’s strikes, pushing them aside and carving an ax around for Kas’s head. Kas darted back quickly out of the way into other guards, one getting a deep slash down diagonally along Kas’s back. The Ghost of Gilneas yelled in pain, turning and clashing into them with fury, the shield-guard advancing--

    --having forgotten about Tanlia, who dug her daggers into his back and yanked upwards, sweat and blood matting her black hair down--

    Naz helped Kell to her feet, wide-eyed, stroking her hair back in concern, but the warlock shook her head firmly, muttering “m’fine” as a curl of blood started to trickle down the side of her face. Another guard charged them--

    Naz pulled her sister out of the way, ducking back and grabbing the man by the throat in a fierce grip, murmuring and putting her other hand to Kell’s head. The man spluttered and started to shake, wide-eyed, the skin tightening on his cheeks--then fell to the ground, letting out one last rattle and dying, his life gone to restore some of the warlock’s. Kell shook her head, blinked, then quickly wiped away the blood from her face, eyes darting to the next attacker--

    Still unable to get his sword, Roy blocked attack after attack with his shield, the numbers beyond this current onslaught noticeably fewer--he blocked one then curved his arm around in a cross, punching the edge of the shield into one guard’s head--as he did, a blade tore against his side, leaving a streak of pain, and he howled--

    Turning, he blocked another attempted swing, rushing into the attacker’s space and hooking his leg behind one of the guard’s, knocking him onto his back and roaring, seeing red, bringing the shield’s pointed bottom up then down fiercely on unprotected neck--

    Blades slashed along, and as many as Kas blocked, still more caught the armor along his arms until he had to dart away in retreat, the muscles red and stinging, the armor cut into ribbons along his skin--

    Tanlia joined him at his side, readying herself--

    The voidguard barreled through the ranks, tackling one to the ground and crushing him, the others turning to attack it--

    Giving the rogues the breathing room they needed away from attention, vanishing into the shadows again as the voidguard finally moaned and burst into nothingness, defeated--

    Kas and Tanny reappeared behind the guards, tearing through them before they knew what was happening--and the room finally went still.

    Roy got his sword, grunting and wincing, and the party reconvened at the stairs. Kell, having been healed, was in the best shape, though all were winded. Naz brushed Tanlia’s hair back, concerned, doubly so seeing the rogue limping. Roy rolled his shoulder and held out his sword-arm, testing how stable it was--frowning grimly seeing it shaking, the muscles straining just to support the weight of the blade. Kas’s arms were coated crimson, and along his back a huge slash was soaking the white deermane in blood.

    Kell brought out the few healing potions and stones she had that might help their wounds, and they waited calmly in the stairwell, regaining themselves, if only marginally. Then, they went up.

    The next floor was, as the first had been, empty. Racks of weapons and armor circled the perimeter walls, and in the far corner there were stairs leading up. The center of the floor had thick straw mats covering it completely: the practice area.

    Standing in it was the tallest, broadest-chested man they’d ever seen.

    Easily seven and a half feet in his plate armor, the man had no helmet on and was watching the stairwell calmly. How much he weighed, they couldn’t guess, though Roy, who knew how to measure bodies in plate better than the rest, estimated an even 250 lbs of muscle. For as big as the man was, he was not rotund--he was a wall himself, even and immovable.

    He smirked, seeing them, and bowed his head in a darkly jovial fashion.

    “Welcome,” he said, voice deep as a cannon and as rough as one too.

    The party advanced slowly.

    “Five on one?” he said, straightening. “Hardly seems fair.”

    “Wasn’t exactly fair downstairs,” Tanlia pointed out mildly.

    “Mm,” the behemoth said, shrugging, then the smirk took hold of his face again. “Nonetheless, it’s the rules of these upper floors: one on one only.”

    “Fuck your stupid rules,” Kas growled.

    The giant laughed, still standing in their way despite their advancing. “You don’t play by the rules, you don’t advance.”

    He pointed up the stairs--to a woman standing lackadaisically behind a thick door and a window.

    “Door up there has enough barricades to keep out the entirety of Greymane’s army. Even you, little warlock, won’t be able to tear it down. I’ve tried myself, a few times. Lady Silva up there is watching to see if you play by the rules, just like Garrett’s watching her floor. You five probably could overwhelm me; you kill one-on-one, though, and you earn our respect to pass. That’s the game we’re playing. So! Who’s it going to be?”

    “Me,” Royyan said before anyone else could reply, standing tall in the face of such an adversary.

    The rest of them looked at him in various states of surprise and alarm, but none intervened. He was the most hurt--but as he thought, correctly, he was the least lethal of them all. Their skills would be needed for coming challenges above.

    Royyan stepped forward into the ring of straw itself, rolling his hurt shoulder and trying not to give away how much it twinged. The giant smiled lightly, looking at the plated warrior then over at the rack of weapons.

    “Any preferences, besides what you’ve got?”

    Royyan glanced at them a long, quiet moment, then shook his head no, turning back.

    “All right,” the giant said, moving over and pulling out a greatsword and a shield for himself, both massive, as he was, compared to the smaller man. The giant moved back to the middle and grinned.

    “Seems only fair. I’m forgoing a helmet; they always seem so constricting. Keep yours if you want; that’s fine. Your name, please?”

    “Why?” Royyan asked.

    The helmetless man chuckled. “I like to know who I’m about to kill. Gives it a personal touch. A memorable time; much easier to recall than ‘Gilnean Soldier number whatever.’ So, your name, please.”

    “Royyan Smith.”

    The giant smiled and bowed his head again. “Alexei Barreston. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

    “You don’t seem too worried we cut down your little army downstairs,” Tanlia remarked from the sidelines.

    Alexei glanced her way and grinned darkly. “If you killed them, little raven girl, then they weren’t good enough to be here. Lady Silva and myself earned the right to remain on our floors during any attack. Do you really think you’ve been the first to assault us? Greymane has some guards that try every few months, and Garrett tells the King they went rogue and attacked; of course they wound up dead. It did surprise me a little you five got through--no one else has. It makes me very excited to face you, Mr. Smith!”

    Alexei turned back to Royyan, shaking himself awake and dropping into a battle-ready stance. “When you’re ready, sir; if you need a moment for your shoulder, that’s fine.”

    Royyan grimaced under his helmet and bowed his head politely. “Thank you for your consideration.”

    “Of course; take your time.”

    Royyan looked up vaguely at nothing, taking a few deep breaths and rolling his shoulder slowly, stretching the tired muscle and easing it, testing the weight of his sword in it--much more stable. Okay.

    The room was quiet. Royyan shook his limbs out, waking them, and dropped into an on-guard. “All right then.”

    “Wonderful,” Alexei murmured. “Wonderful. To the death, Mr. Smith?”

    “To the death, Mr. Barreston.”

    Alexei grinned wide, murmuring “wonderful” again, and dropped lower like a tiger watching its prey. Royyan breathed even, eyes on him, tensing. The giant waited, watching, and Royyan nodded slightly to himself; he was being sized up. Aggressive or defensive?

    Against a man like that? Defensive, naturally—but he’d expect that. He’d be used to that.

    Alexei took a step forward, set to advance—

    Royyan roared and sprinted to his opponent.

    The giant man paused mid-step in surprise then glee, readying his shield to backhand Roy—

    Roy has one advantage to the size difference: agility. Alexei swung hard, a blow that would’ve caved in Roy’s skull if it’d connected, but the nimbler man ducked hard under it, stabbing upwards—

    Alexei stepped back quickly, the stabbing blow clashing along his armored chest but deflecting, bringing his sword arcing down to Roy’s head—

    Roy brought his arm up, taking the blow along his shield, wincing slightly and stuttering back a half-step from the force of it, and before he could recover his footing Alexei planted a hard boot in his chest, kicking Roy off the ground backwards half the length of the room. The young warrior crashed down, rolling and coughing but stumbling back quickly to his feet, his weapons still in hand.

    “MY TURN!” Alexei laughed, running forward now to meet him—

    Roy growled and sprinted again to him, not letting him have the extra time to prepare a strike—

    The giant roared and swung for Roy’s hips, where his head would be if he ducked again—

    Roy jumped as high as he could and braced himself in a ball, feet barely missing the sword swing and the whole of his weight and momentum tucked behind his shield, smashing into the center of Alexei’s chest hard and stopping the giant’s sprint all at once. The two grunted and Roy crashed back off of him, tucking down to the ground in a rattled daze and quickly bringing the shield around into one of his knees, cracking against it and forcing the giant off-balance—

    Alexei’s sword slipped from his hands in the first impact from Roy’s shield, and at the second he yelled and twisted, looking down in wild rage. He grabbed Roy with both hands, locking tree-trunk arms around the smaller warrior, lifting him off the ground and slamming him down on his back hard, knocking the breath from him. Roy coughed, eyes fluttering, and the giant clamped a hand around his throat, squeezing—

    The women stared on from the sidelines in distress; Kas’s eyes were shut but he still tended in alarm—

    Roy hissed and brought his sword up, still in-hand, stabbing into Alexei’s armpit and piercing the nerve cluster.

    The huge Gilnean yelped in pain and let go, letting Roy gasp in air. Roy got in, aggressing, swinging the sword but only getting it knocked out of his hand by Alexei’s shield. Roy backed up, getting shakily to his feet, as did the giant, wincing and clutching his now-limp arm. The two men panted, regaining their breath.

    Not waiting too long, Roy yelled again, charging. Alexei snarled and lowered his stance, waiting--

    Roy stopped a pace away, the giant still tensing to get at him and swinging the shield wildly. Roy swung his up, bashing it up underneath and straining the muscles in the other man’s arm. Alexei yelped and the shield slipped from his grasp, rattling to the floor--

    Before Roy could react, Alexei grabbed his shield, ripping the straps completely with a yank that pulled on Roy’s arm hard. The younger warrior sprawled forward, barely getting footing again, shield falling away--

    A left hook cracked along the side of his head, sending Roy stumbling with a ringing head. Had his now-dented helmet not been there, his jaw would’ve fractured completely. Alexei barreled in, yelling wildly, landing hit after hit on the young man’s ribs until Roy finally blocked, taking the beating on his arms themselves--

    Roy ducked under, grabbing the giant’s ankle and tackling him to the ground by the hip, sending the huge man on his back. He aimed a kick at Alexei’s groin--only to double over, Alexei kicking the wind out of his gut then bringing his thick leg around, sweeping out Roy’s knees from under him. Roy crashed down on his back but heaved himself away before a fist smashed where his head had been.

    The two rolled away, staggering again to their feet. Alexei yelled again, sprinting at Roy, but the smaller warrior regained himself in time, ducking-- hooking an arm under Alexei’s leg and around his chest, heaving him off the ground--

    Roy roared, holding the flailing giant in the air before throwing him roughly down, letting him crash head-first into the floor. Alexei coughed, blood trickling down his bare face, and grabbed at Roy’s leg, yanking it out from under him and slamming his fist up into the center of Roy’s groin.

    The younger warrior screamed in pain, doubling up as he fell, and before he could curl up, Alexei snarled and smashed a fist into his head, sending him sprawling like a ragdoll to lay limp by the fallen greatsword.

    The four on the sideline clamored, breath catching, watching Roy’s body. The warrior laid still, and Alexei grunted and slowly got to his feet, limping over.

    “Good match, Mr-- Mr. Smith,” the giant managed as he approached. “I’ll remember your name.”

    He got to Roy, raising a foot to stomp and crush his head--

    Roy grabbed the greatsword all at once, a weapon easily his height and maybe even his weight, heaving it around with all his remaining might--

    There was a CLANG! and a sickeningly wet noise, and Alexei squawked in surprise.

    The giant’s foot came down limply to the ground, and he staggered back a step.

    Roy watched him, falling back to the ground but breathing firm and alive, looking at the greatsword cleaving through the giant’s armor and stopped halfway through his chest.

    Alexei crashed back to the ground, letting out a dying breath.

    The four ran over to Royyan, kneeling by him. Kas grabbed an arm and gingerly hoisted him up to his feet, going slow and pausing to let the warrior breathe, hearing him wince and moan softly under all the plate.

    At the top of the stairs, the sound of hinges. The door opened.

    “You all right to go on?” Kas asked softly.

    “Fine,” the warrior replied, voice husky. “Need to catch my breath though and not stand long. My balls feel like they’re stabbing me.”

    Kas nodded, heading upstairs with him and easing him down to sit by the door. Roy whimpered but caught his breath again.

    The next floor was identical to the last, except the opponent was a slim woman, dressed in dark leathers and with two small daggers in her hands. She watched them coldly and calmly, waiting on the straw floor, blocking the next stairwell.

    Kell moved into the ring before anyone could stop her.

    “What are you doing?!” Tanlia said, moving after her--

    Kas grabbed her arm.

    Tanlia looked at him, surprised, struggling to get to Kell, then stopped. Upstairs, there were no more rules. Which meant it was them versus Garrett--and with both of them hurt--

    Kell was letting them conserve everything for the final fight.

    The opponent woman bowed her head with disdain, a gesture Kell didn’t even mimic. She raised a brow, then motioned over at Naz, voice drawling and quite bored.

    “Your pet can join us. It might make this last longer, in fact. A warlock isn’t anything without their demons, after all. And I’m sure you’re starting to get tired, what with going through the army downstairs. I doubt you’d’ve brought that many mana potions, little Kelleniana.”

    Kell glanced over at Naz, who quickly stepped into the ring beside her sister, face grim. The rogue woman smirked.

    “Wonderful. I’m Silva: let’s get this over with then so I can get on with my day.”

    Kell narrowed her eyes then moved over to the rack of weapons, pausing and looking them over. Silva sighed and relaxed, waiting. Kell finally grabbed a slim metal staff, tested it, nodded to herself, then moved back to Naz.

    “Shall we?” Silva asked, raising a brow.

    “You seem very confident for a who isn’t fireproof,” Kell said, voice soft and dripping acid. Silva blinked then sneered.

    “You seem confident you’ll get a spell off before I get to you, little girl,” she replied.

    “Let’s just see about that, huh?” Kell asked, readying herself. Naz uncoiled the whip in her hand, eyes narrowing--

    --then jolting open--

    “KELL!” Naz yelped, darting behind her sister and yelping again in pain, a dagger protruding through her shoulder pointed at the back of the warlock’s head. Kell whirled about in alarm, but Silva had already vanished away again, darting around them with impossibly polished speed, chuckling coming from everywhere--

    The two sisters quickly backed into each other, Naz wincing and holding her shoulder, the whip trembling in her hand, Kell scanning the room with a low growl--

    A dagger speared out to reach her--

    Kell brought the staff up, whacking it away, both hands on one end to utilize the length of the metal rod, bringing its end back around to whack where Silva should be--but the rogue had darted back again, and stood chuckling to herself back where she’d started, looking at Naz’s blood along one dagger.

    “Good thing your imp servant there is here with you,” Silva commented, tone purposefully bland before her eyes rolled up to meet Kell’s, “wouldn’t you say?”

    Kell snarled and started to murmur a spell--stopping and doubling over with a cry of pain, a knee smashing up into her diaphragm. Naz whipped around, striking out with the whip, only for Silva to catch her by the arm and pull her off her feet, slamming her down into the mats, keeping her arm locked, putting a foot in her armpit and twisting roughly. Naz screamed, the muscles in her arm on fire, and Tanlia started into the ring desperately--

    Kas held out an arm, stopping her, and she snarled in a frenzy at him--but stayed in place.

    Silva smirked out at the two rogues on the sidelines. “Pity you can’t help, huh--”

    Before she could stop, a bolt of fire slammed her in the chest, sending her sprawling back. Silva coughed, surprised, rolling quickly back to her feet--

    Kell knelt down by her sister, murmuring something, energy flowing from her to Naz’s arm and shoulder, healing them roughly. The succubus yelped then whimpered, trembling. Kell’s eyes turned coldly on Silva, who rubbed the scorch marks on her chest.

    “So you’re a tough little bitch, huh?”

    “You talk too much,” Kell said coldly, hands starting to glow with fire again.

    Silva snarled, coming in again fast--

    Kell snapped, a semi-circle of fire shooting up in front of her. There were surprised footfalls as Silva darted away from almost being roasted alive, then Kell heaved the staff around with surprising alertness behind her, catching the rogue in the arm before she could backstab them, smashing the metal into her and sending her skidding. Silva hissed in pain and fury, darting in again--

    “Low!” Kell barked, and Naz cracked her whip at the ground where Silva’s feet would be--

    As the rogue jumped to clear it and stab down at Kell, she brought the staff upwards, catching Silva directly up along the chest. Kell stepped and heaved with all her force, and the rogue tumbled away to the ground with the momentum--

    Silva dashed in again, daggers stabbing down into the tops of Kell’s hands and causing her to drop the staff--

    Naz lashed her whip out, but before she could crack it, Silva planted a boot in her chest. Unable to counter the speed, the succubus fell back, wheezing--

    Silva turned back to Kell, daggers out, growling. Kell held her shaking hands out, unable to move her fingers, wincing but making no noise. Silva snorted.

    “Look at you. Unable to cast a thing now. For what its worth, most of my fights end really quickly, honey. You’re no exception--”

    Silva sank her daggers into Kell’s belly, grinning wildly. Kell yelled in pain, grabbing Silva’s face in her bloodied hands--Tanlia and Naz screamed--

    Everyone fell still. Blood pooled in the straw.

    Silva started to shiver.

    Green light slowly glowed along Kell’s hands and in her vicious emerald eyes. The warlock’s face shuddered in concentration and pain and fury, and she slowly straightened her back. One hand reached down, yanking Silva’s hands away one by one, and the daggers dropped listlessly to the ground. Silva coiled up more and more in agony, mouth open in a silent scream, her skin drawing in along her bones--

    Kell growled low, the wounds healing themselves slowly but every ounce of stinging pain remaining. “For what it’s worth, my fights usually end quicker. Honey.”

    Kell drained the last bit of life from the rogue and threw her carcass to the ground. Tanlia ran to the warlock, catching her as she stumbled, and Naz came quickly too, supporting her sister--

    Kas’s hand brushed gently along the warlock’s shoulder. “You all right?”

    Kell glanced up at him, grinning weakly. “Hurts like a bitch; never better.”

    Kas squeezed her arm then let go, collecting Roy from the ground and going to the stairwell. The door above was open. They went up.

    The last floor was a large one-room apartment. Sitting tiredly in his chair, Garrett, watching them with even, accepting eyes. Standing next to him--

    “KATIA!” Kas called out.

    Katia Remor, grown into a young woman, stood watching the party fiercely behind her red hair. Tanlia started forward a step, murmuring her name hopefully--pausing in horror.

    Katia Remor was outfitted in the same armor as Silva. With similarly cruel daggers in hand.

    Watching them with hatred.

    “Katia--” Kas started.

    “Don’t bother,” the girl replied coldly. “There’s nothing you can say or do that’ll make me go with you. And no way you’re getting out alive. Brother.”

    Kas looked on in horror.

    Garrett rose calmly from his chair. “Mr. Remor. I never lied to you that I kept her safe from everyone. It was never my wish nor my intention to harm children; nor was it one to sit back and let her languish in a brothel. It wasn’t my intention for anything in the Underground to go as it has. But I was part of a committee--not the ruling Lord.”

    “They’re all dead,” Tanlia managed, looking on at her former friend in pain. The girl had been so sweet--almost like a daughter she could raise--

    “I know,” Garrett said. “I’m the last one. Just as you’d wanted, Kaskaeld; it’s given me time to think on all I’ve done. I was born into this; I wasn’t inducted in through pain, like you, Kas. My father was an honorable rogue, and in his time we weren’t smugglers and gamblers and villains: we were the vanguard for all those problems Greymane was unable to cope with. We were the blades in the night that cut down invasion; the sailors who braved great distances for supplies and contacts; the influencers helping guide Lords to rule with kindness and maturity.

    “And then, when I was a little younger than you are now, everything was corrupted. The generation with my morals was killed as a plague of greed spread through our ranks, and not knowing anything else, I allied with them rather than find another path. I thought, vainly, that perhaps I might still find ways to do good, beyond lining the pockets of worthless men with coins. I had hoped, perhaps, that training you--and your sister, now--would give you strength to carry on past the childhood ripped from you.

    “Perhaps we might’ve made something. A new Underground; a better one, like older days. Perhaps we could’ve been friends; I could’ve helped you as a father helps a son. Perhaps I would die with honor and discipline, rather than face down the demise of all I’ve built at the hands of my once-prized student. But those doors are shut.”

    Katia readied her daggers, face trembling--

    “ _Katia_.”

    Garrett’s word surprised her, and the girl glanced at him, alarmed. He smiled gently.

    “Let it go. They’re right, in what they’re doing. It’s time for this to end.”

    Her eyes widened--

    “You can’t-- You can’t just give up!” she said wildly, looking up at him. Garrett smiled lightly, starting to say something-- “NO!” she interrupted, frantic. “No, Garrett! We can beat them!”

    “They’re your family, girl. More than I am.”

    “ _I don’t remember them!_ ” she shouted, glancing back hatefully at the rogues. “I remember _you_. Fight with me; we can beat them, we can rebuild and _live_.”

    Kas and Tanlia watched in silent anguish. Kas’s shoulders slumped dully.

    Garrett watched her tiredly, then shook his head, soft and sad.

    Frenzied, Katia pushed him away and charged the group of five, roaring--

    Kas blocked instinctively, the blades slicing along his already-burning arms. Tanlia yelled and grabbed at Katia, but the girl swung around, cracking a fist into her head, sending her stumbling back a step. Kas tucked in, grabbing a wrist, releasing it just as fast as her blades swung around and nicked his chest. The rogue was well-taught and well-practiced, and Kas barely dodged each strike, the armor cut up more and more--

    Tanlia grabbed her again from behind, and Katia snarled, twisting and throwing her off, raising the daggers to strike--

    Before she could, Kas tackled her down, trying to pin her arms--

    Katia threw him off, growling, recovering before him and stabbing a dagger down hard into his shoulder. He winced hard and let out a wheeze of shock, grabbing the other arm before the other dagger could sink into his head--

    Garrett grabbed her from behind, appearing there all at one--

    Katia yelled and spun wildly, sinking the dagger in his ribs.

    Everyone stopped. Katia’s eyes widened. Garrett slowly coughed, and a thin line of blood fell from his lips.

    “No-- _no_ \--” Katia whimpered, trying to catch him-- but Garrett gently pushed her back. Another set of arms found her. The gentle arms of a big brother.

    Kas, wounded and weak, but still trying to help his baby sister.

    “GET OFF ME!” she yelled, spinning away from his grasp and moving to the window, opening it quickly. Tanlia dashed after her, but she held up a hand, stopping the woman in place, leaning out over the street.

    “Kat-- Kat. Please…” Tanlia murmured, holding out her hands.

    Katia looked at her--then to Kas, with his heart-broken, open eyes; not there to fight anymore--then to Garrett, slumping down to the ground and wheezing.

    “I don’t know you,” Katia said finally, a tear spilling down her face. “I don’t know _any_ of you. I just know that my home was destroyed. And I moved around. And Garrett found me. He was my family: the people downstairs were family. And you’ve killed them all. I don’t _want_ to know you.”

    She leapt from the window.

    Tanlia screamed and went after her, not pausing hearing the wet THUD below, looking down--

    --curling back in quickly, turning away. Walking a few steps--sinking down to her knees.

    Kas shut his eyes, tears spilling silently down his face.

    “Kas,” Garrett managed, holding out a hand.

    The Ghost of Gilneas opened his eyes, kneeling down and taking his old mentor’s hand. The grip was still tight, and the rogue leader chuckled bitterly.

    “I really… am sorry. I really… wanted this to be… better. I wanted… to keep you safe… to raise you strong.” Garrett gulped, the effort noticeable, his voice softer. “I never… wanted this… with Katia… or you… or anything.”

    Kas squeezed his hand gently.

    “Kaskaeld… Amadeus… Remor. You are… my proudest… achievement. And my worst… mistake. Be kind. Be better than me. Be… a better man than me. Be good--”

    And life slipped out of him.

    Kas stayed there at his side. Then Royyan helped him up. Naz and Kell were helping Tanlia, far more outwardly distressed, losing her young surrogate daughter. Kas didn’t register what was happening. They moved downstairs. They moved past corpses. They moved out into the cold, dark rain.

    Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, long and lonesome and low. But it was just a wolf. Or so we thought.

 

It was late. Xairestraszas had stayed up listening, and now that Kas finished speaking fell promptly asleep, drooling over his cow. Sam stayed curled up snugly at his side, watching him with a sorrow deeply lined in her face. The storm outside had abated; by tomorrow, it would be gone and they could move.

“You remember things very vividly,” Samantha murmured.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I review fights in my mind to see where I could’ve done better. I keep images in mind to paint later, too.”

She put a hand gently against his cheek, turning his wolf face to her. His red predatorial eyes looked into hers, and he breathed as soft and even as ever. She stroked her thumb over his cheek, then nestled in at his side, hugging him tighter. They said nothing else, and eventually sleep overtook them.


	11. Bared Fangs

When they woke, there was no sound outside. The howl of the Northrend winds had died down, and with it, the storm. Kas got up and groaned, stretching himself out and cursing the stone floor they were sleeping on. Sam yawned awake and did likewise--quickly lighting up with the storm’s end; they could leave the confinements of the old plague obelisk.

Xairestraszas was curled up snugly amidst their cloaks, his smiling cow plushie soaked in drool, and as Kas brought out food for their breakfast the dragon squawked and rolled about, prancing over.

They ate, then went downstairs to try and leave. Sam’s face fell, and she all but screamed.

The snow blocked them in; the whole door caked over. Kas frowned, looking at the small hillside, and sighed to himself; they would have to shovel their way through. The only good thing about it was that the snow, while heavy in volume, seemed light and moveable. The problems were numerous; the volume and the lack of space inside to move it to, the fact they had no real shovels, and the lightness of it. While it would be easy to move, Kas discovered grimly they couldn’t start from the top and tunnel out; each time he tried to step up to the peak of the white hill, he sunk back to the floor.

They’d have to go handful by handful until the door was almost completely cleared.

Sam hissed and spat, kicking at the wall of the obelisk, but finally with pained eyes submitted that there’d be no easy way to leave the building. Xairestraszas nestled in snugly at Kas’s chest in the warm sling, and the worgen wrapped his hands up as much as possible to try and avoid frostbite. Sam did likewise, and they started in at the hill, pulling handfuls of snow into the room and aside.

And as they pulled one handful, another cascaded into place, as if no progress whatsoever had been made.

They didn’t speak, just wanting to stay warm, and Sam took the first break to drink and bundle herself in a heavier cloak for a moment. Kas wearily continued, and around noon the first crack appeared at the top of the high door, just a peeking glimpse of sunlight wandering in. The rogues winced, their eyes having adjusted to the dimness of the obelisk, and Kas shut his eyes completely to avoid the blinding glare of the white snow. Without pause, he continued, until a half hour later when Sam made him take a break to heat up again, taking over.

They worked on and off until late in the afternoon, sometimes one at a time and sometimes both. The only time neither toiled away was their break for lunch, and by the time the evening had graced the sky with its dazzling pinks and the sun dipped down, chilling the night air, there was finally a path out at knee-height they could wade through.

Miserable as it was, Samantha conceded they’d better head back upstairs for another night, and so they trudged up, sore and exhausted, and settled back in the safety of the stone shelter. There, the elements would not harm them.

They ate supper, secured the entrance upstairs from any overnight visitor, and then Samantha, having nothing better to do but be miserable at her situation, asked Kas to continue his story. Kaskaeld nodded, petting Xairestraszas in his lap, and began:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

    After the assault on Bladesman’s tower and the dissolvement of the Underground, Kaskaeld vanished from the company of those who had helped him. In reality, he went to the cottage that his family had once lived in, staying as a hermit for a while to recover from the shock and dismay of his sister’s betrayal. After that, he had intended to go live with Kelleniana, thinking everything finished and Gilneas a calmer place. How wrong he was.

    Tanlia worked with Kelleniana and Nazwena to rebuild Kell’s home, acting as an intermediary between the warlock and King Greymane. Genn, though nonplussed by them and their actions, quietly agreed to help rebuild the home, as it was far from their fault it was destroyed in the first place. During this time, tensions mounted, with Kelleniana more and more bold by the day regarding the romantic pursuit of her rogue friend. Tanlia stayed with them, continuing to kiss and caress Nazwena, though each time Kelleniana sent her succubus away for supplies, the succubus grew increasingly doubtful of their chastity.

    Royyan, upon telling King Greymane all that happened regarding the warrior’s fight against the Underground, was promoted to one of the city’s elite guards, much to the joy of his family and Kanhya, who decided to stay with him and his sisters.

    During this time, two other things happened. The soldiers sent to Northrend returned, and the howling of wolves grew steadily more noticeable at night.

    The first of these was a much happier occasion, and the docks were rushed to greet those soldiers returning. Among the party were the two Barastos brothers, Yaranh and Henry, stepping off the returned ship with the rest of the exhausted fighters. Before they made it through the crowd to breathe fresh air, Kanhya came bounding up, tackling Henry and clinging to him. The priest stumbled then steadied himself with a laugh, hugging her, while Royyan quickly moved in too, relieved to see them safe. Yaranh greeted him, looking no worse for the wear, and Henry similarly looked exactly the same save a longer mane of hair.

    Kanhya moved over to Yaranh and hopped up on his back for a ride, squeaking with laughter, and before Henry could say hello Royyan hugged him tight. Henry shut his eyes, basking in the moment, and smiled in the embrace.

    The second occurrence, that of wolves, proved far more troublesome.

 

<Kelleniana’s Story, Continued>

    Contrary to Nazwena’s suspicions, Kelleniana, though brazen, had no intention of stealing away her sister’s lover because she was attractive. Nor, for that matter, did Tanlia intend to change the parameters of her relationship with a girl that had been like a younger sister or even a daughter for so long.

    That said, the tension in Kelleniana’s rebuilt home was unbearable.

    Built to be just like the old home, there was one large room that was a combined living room/kitchen/bedroom, a smaller room to wash up, and an outhouse out back. Even with a second bed for Tanlia and Nazwena, neither the couple nor the growing young woman got any privacy. Then, one fateful night, frustrations hit their limit.

    Kelleniana worked quietly at her alchemy table, grinding down herbs. Tanlia entered, dragging a net full of fish; their dinner for the next few nights.

    “Have you seen Naz?” the rogue asked, setting down her catch and kneeling to unpack it.

    “Hello to you too.”

    Tanlia paused, glancing up at her. The warlock worked away without rest, back to the door, voice sharp.

    “Hello. Have you seen Naz?”

    “No.”

    “Right. Well—” Tanlia grunted and stood again, bringing an armful of fish to their icebox. “I need to talk to her.”

    “Private stuff?”

    Tanlia raised a brow, putting the fish away for later. “Yes…”

    “Well, I haven’t seen her.”

    Tanlia stored away the rest of her catch in silence. The fire crackled in the hut, and the faint sound of pestle hitting mortar boomed out. Tanlia got the last large fish, spearing it through and putting it over the fire to cook.

    “Kell?”

    No reply.

    “What’s going on, between us?”

    Kelleniana stopped, glancing over her shoulder at the rogue, voice dipping down softly. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on between us.”

    Tanlia cleared her throat. “I meant why the cold shoulder, love?”

    “Am I being cold?” Kell murmured, the fire light flickering over her, warm, her green eyes sharpened to knives.

    “Little bit, yeah,” Tanlia said, watching her. She had grown up into a capable woman; her auburn hair woven into a thick braid, hanging down her shoulder and draping along her bosom. “Have I done something to upset you?”

    Those green eyes flickered along Tanlia, resting where the light glimmered and sang out the rogue’s praises. Tanlia shivered. It was the same gaze she’d seen many, many days throughout the brothel. Kell looked back at her alchemy table, and the clinking of pestle hitting mortar filled the rogue’s ears again.

    “No, nothing to upset me.”

    The fire crackled, delighted at the silence. The fish was forgotten on the spit, and Tanlia moved closer behind the lovely warlock.

    “Kell--”

    The door opened and shut. Tanlia turned and smiled, and Naz held her smile as bright as ever. Kell remained steadfastly grinding her herbs.

    “Hello~” Naz purred, moving to Tanlia and kissing her cheek, arms slinking around her body. Tanlia hummed in bliss, but turned her face back to the colder third wheel. Naz followed her gaze, watching Kell carefully. “Is everything all right?”

    “Yes,” the warlock said simply.

    “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Tanlia murmured--

    “I’ve said it is,” Kell said, louder.

    “What’s wrong, sister?” Nazwena said, frowning--

    “ _Nothing is wrong_ ,” the warlock said, turning with a glare, “nothing at all is wrong now would you stop _asking_ that?”

    Tanlia gulped. Nazwena studied her little sister carefully. Kell’s lovely green eyes bore into her golden ones, and beyond that emerald gaze the girl was shivering. Afraid. Needing. She was, Naz thought to herself, half-succubus after all; living with a succubus and feeling that energy--living with a gorgeous girl like Tanlia throughout all her maturing life--

    “Tanny, would you go outside?” Naz cooed, and the rogue nodded shyly, slipping away out the door and leaving the two alone. Kell’s gaze faltered and she looked back at the table, gripping the tools tighter with shaking fingers.

    “Kelleniana--”

    “I’m _fine_ ,” Kell said through gritted teeth.

    “Stop,” the succubus said. The word hung between them, and Kell finally let out a breath, body draping over the table in exhaustion before turning to see her sister. Naz’s tail swished, noting how the girl’s skin drank in the shade of her hair--how the softness of her features burned the depths of her eyes--how she was much, much more now than Naz had previously seen. But it hadn’t been all at once, Naz thought: it had been gradual and had gone unnoticed.

   “What do you want me to say, Naz?” the warlock mumbled. “No; yes, you’re right, I’m not fine. It’s very hard to feel fine right now. Living like this, day in and day out; alone except for you two and you two have each other, and--”

    Kell paused, taking a shuddering breath. Naz watched her calmly, understanding.

    “--and not knowing what I-- what I really want. Whether I want her because it’s her or because you have her. Or just to-- to _feel_ something, anything! To know if there’s more to sex than pain.”

    Kell looked away at the fire, face trembling, brows steeped in anguish and trying to look natural. Naz moved to her, putting soft hands on her arms.

    “Kell…”

    “It’s so hard to live each day putting up with other people when you hate yourself,” Kell muttered, shivering.

    “There’s nothing in you that you should hate--”

    “I want you _gone_ ,” Kell said, turning back to Naz, a tear spilling down her face despite her attempts to hold it back. “I want you gone so she can be mine. And you’re my sister; you’ve been there for me all my life and I can’t-- I can’t think of anything else when I see you. I love you more than anything in this world, Naz, and I can’t stand you being here anymore.”

    “Kell,” Naz murmured again, pulling her sister into a hug. Kell shuddered and hugged her tight, pressing her face into the succubus’s shoulder. Naz soothed her, petting her hair, nuzzling against her…

    “Kell… I will live-- a much longer life than either of you two. Perhaps it would be better if I left you be.”

    Kell tensed. “Hm?”

    Naz gulped. “The thoughts come up every day that I’ll see your graves, Kell. Unless I die in a fight; Tanny deserves someone to grow old with. You both do--”

    “Someone to wither away with,” Kell said, listless.

    “ _No_ ,” Naz murmured. “Someone who understands the limitations of age. I will be young and spry and you both would--”

    “I don’t want you to break her heart for me--” Kell muttered.

    “--Kell; I’m saying it’s more appropriate if--”

    “Naz, _you_ are the one she chose; _YOU_ \--”

    “--and that was when you were a girl still; you’re older now, Kell, and all three of us know that! I want what’s best for her; what’s best for _you_ \--”

    Kell shoved her sister away. Nazwena stumbled back towards the door, surprised--

    “You want what’s best for me?” Kell seethed, bristling. “How about you start by not-- not _giving me your HANDOUTS_! Maybe I _should_ take her from you, if that’s how you’d treat her heart when it was given to _YOU_!”

    Naz swallowed, biting back fierce words. The cabin was thin; Tanlia had heard them outside. And it took every bit of wisdom from her centuries to hold her tongue. Kell wouldn’t listen; they’d make it all worse; Naz didn’t mean them anyway, but she was hurt and it’d be so easy to lash back to feel less vulnerable in the moment.

    “Why don’t you two go out for a walk,” Kell said through gritted teeth, “and you explain to her whether you care about her or not. And then, if you really, truly don’t, you _demon_ \--”

    Naz bit her lip. Kell had never said it like that. Ever.

    “--then you tell her to come to me and I _will_.”

    Kell shuddered with rage and tears. Nazwena started to say something, strangled it back, and faintly “ahemed.” It wasn’t her, Naz thought through a haze; it was everything bubbling up and coming out. She needs help right now, she needs--

    She needs space. To Hell with it. She’s a big girl now, she can take care of herself for however long the walk would be. And it’d be a long, long walk.

    Naz left, taking Tanlia’s arm tight with a trembling lip, guiding her away down the shoreline to an outcropping of rocks on the beach. There, they spoke openly, they stargazed, they kissed, they made love. They went home.

    And the house in that time had been torn apart. Kell laid in the wreckage, breathing faintly, clothes in tatters. A large, humanoid wolf, charred and dead, laid nearby.

 

    After Naz left, Kell had cried and seethed and tried to go back to work only to slam her fist down on the table. She wept, bitter and alone, letting her body shake in guilty sobs until the anger left and all that remained was the vague wish for sleep. She slumped into a crouch, leaning her arms on the table and her head on her arms, and let her mind wander in a daze.

    A daze she was pulled from, hearing a scratching, fumbling grasp on the doorknob.

    Kell blinked and sniffled, rubbing a hand across her face and trying to brush some vision back into her eyes. She stood, wincing and stretching her limbs out again. The scratching continued, and the soft sound of a hand thumping the wood cleared her thoughts from her tears.

    “You can come in, Naz,” Kell called out, voice a mourning monotone. “I’m stupid and I’d like company.”

    There was no answer, and the hand thumped along the wood again.

    Kell’s brows furrowed, and she moved towards the door slowly. “Naz? Tanny?”

    Thump… thump…

    “If it’s someone out there who needs help, I’m going to open the door--but be warned if you’re trying to harm me, I will hurt you!” Kell called, trying to sound loud but failing to overpower the blaze of the fire and the shrieking, lamenting wind outside. The young woman gulped, moving to the door, putting her ear on it.

    _Thump_ …

    Nothing.

    Kell listened, trying to slow her breathing. Naz had gone over with her so many times that ghosts were nothing to be afraid of, but Kell had not encountered one herself before. This had to be one--or a fool playing a prank, perhaps. But whatever it was, it was working; her ear was straining against the wood as blood pounded through her head. Warning her.

    Her fingers trembled--but her hand moved to the doorknob, clasping around it slowly. She swallowed, and suddenly her mouth felt dry. The breath slowed to nothing in her chest, but it only made her heart sound louder still.

    “Naz?” the timid little sister whispered, turning the doorknob.

    The heavy wood creaked in its hinges as the door opened to the dark, dark night.

    Kell looked around, trembling, breathing fast, eyes searching the darkness. The shore was lapping away at the rocks somewhere, and the woodland creatures were wandering around; she could hear their trampling. And, though the woods were dark, there was something darker.

    On the ground, crouched down, there was a shape. A hunched, heavy-set humanoid.. shape.

    “Hello?” Kell said weakly, eyes stricken wide.

    “Hhh..” a voice replied, low, trying to form a word but replacing the rest with a growl. The head swiveled around at her voice, and glowing red eyes met hers, fierce and feral. On the head of this large man, two pointed ears sprouted up, and where his face should be, an elongated, ugly snout reached out into space, covered in fine, grey fur. His lips moved back in a quiver, exposing a spotty pink gum and fangs, large fangs--cruel fangs--sharp and dripping with saliva.

    The creature reared up on its hind legs, towering up seven feet high, its gaze bearing down cruelly on the girl. Spittle dripped onto the floor of the forest where her hut lay hidden, and in the creature’s silhouette Kelleniana could now see the tree trunks it had for arms, hidden under torn clothing, ending in huge hands and long, slender, pointed fingers--

    Claws.

    It stepped forward--

    Kell gasped and tried to slam the door shut, but the canine man roared and slammed one hand forward, thrusting the door inwards out of her grasp. The girl screamed and stepped back, eyes wide in terror, and the wolfman bore down on her, stumbling into her house and grabbing her, sinking its huge muzzle down on her shoulder and driving its fangs deep into her breastbone, snarling and shaking its mane to tear out a hunk of meat. Kell screamed again in pain, beating at it, and in a frenzy a surge of power flowed through her, bursting green light out of her palm and burning through the hairy attacker.

    The wolf howled, knocked off of her, wheezing with a hole through its chest, and died, red eyes staring up wide at her.

    Kell gasped, sparks flying from her hands, blood pouring from her shoulder, her arm feeling limp at her side; her back spastic with adrenaline and agony--

    Her knees gave out and her eyes rolled back in her head. A fever sprung up in the warlock’s body, and blessed darkness carried her off before she even felt her head hit the ground.

 

Kas stopped, petting Xairestraszas and lulling the dragon to sleep quickly with the silence of the room. Sam waited long enough for the babe to slumber then quickly huffed.

“You _always_ stop when it’s interesting, Kas.”

The rogue smiled politely. “Well, you’ve got to come back the next night to hear more. I’ve got to keep you entertained.”

Sam huffed again and looked away. It didn’t take long for her gaze to wander back to the worgen man, petting his adopted dragon son.

“Well, I’ll say that for you, Fuzzy. You do keep me entertained. And in a much more memorable way than most men.”

Sam smiled, moving over and putting a hand on his chest. Kas blinked--then all at once he was on his back, looking up at her. A smile crept up her lips--and she laid down at his side, pulling up their blanket.

“We should sleep. Can start out earlier tomorrow if we’re well-rested.”

“R-- Right, yes. Yes,” he mumbled.

Sam chuckled, relaxed, and the silence overtook their senses.


	12. The Howling Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kas and Sam get a move on, and Tanlia ventures out into the dark.

They woke to peace and quiet. Sam was awake first, but when Kas woke almost an hour later the human rogue had stayed put snuggled at his side. Kas blinked blearily in the darkness and found her gaze, accompanied by absentminded fingers petting over his chest.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, looking around for their traveling sack and some water.

“Morning,” she replied, finally sitting up and stretching.

Kas got the sack, getting out what he wanted and carefully sitting up, keeping Xairestraszas nestled close in the sling on his chest. The babe hadn’t yet woken. Kas sipped some water, wincing at the taste of his mouth.

“How’d you sleep?” the worgen asked. Sam fished out breakfast for herself and shrugged.

“It was a night.”

Kas nodded. “D’you stay warm enough?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

They ate quickly and packed up again. Sam was faster, and impatient; tapping her foot by the stairwell down and sending a soft clicking reverberating through the stone room. Kas caught up to her, and they descended.

The cold was as frigid as ever, and the winds blew in with full gusts, banging around the room and targeting the beleaguered rogues from every angle. The snow hadn’t piled up any, and they waded through the knee-deep dust and, after three and a half days, finally left the out-of-use plague obelisk.

Sam sighed and her whole frame relaxed as she breathed in the icy blue sky above. They waded out to the edge of the obelisk and down the stairs, brushing it aside and finding the stone path that wound up the road towards Dragonblight and their destination. The snow abated the further they went; it had piled up by the obelisk as if to spite them. But now, free of the accursed building, Sam grinned and twirled herself once on the path, looking for the first time carefree.

Xairestraszas woke up, squawking and squirming and yawning his wide mouth. Kas paused long enough to pull food from the sack, and fed the tiny whelpling as they walked. Sam walked beside him, glancing into the sling as the red babe gobbled down meat.

“He’s growing,” she said. Xairestraszas had; the bundle along Kas’s chest was much fuller, heavier, and twice as wriggly.

“Aye,” Kas replied, feeding the ravenous whelpling another nibble.

“Looks just like his dad,” Sam said, smirking to herself and looking ahead again. Kas glanced at her then shook his head, giving the dragon water then putting everything back in the sack. Xairestraszas protested, and Kas got the cow out for him. The dragon huffed, but nonetheless grabbed the plush critter and smothered it.

They walked along the empty, winding road, slower than they’d like to as the air battled them. Many minutes were wasted with energy spent stopped, holding their ground and tilting into the gales to stop from being blown hither and yon. Kas stayed in his worgen form, huge and lumbering and not as pained with each burst of ice on his skin; Sam on the other hand wrapped herself up tight in cloth and wool and did her best to survive close to him. There was no wish to talk, and so they spent a weary day walking.

The sun dipped lower, and they looked around for somewhere to stay the night. The road curved on aimlessly, and in the distance Sam swore she could hear the water rushing from inland out to the ocean, and the bridge that separated Dragonblight from the Tundra. But, she had to lament, it was too far off and the night was going to get frigid before they would make it much farther.

At the end of the road, where it branched off towards some long-forgotten and overgrown path, they found a large post with two coiled ropes towards the top. Sam glanced at Kas, wondering if he knew what it was, and he nodded lightly. Gallows.

The winds picked up, and they stopped under the unused gallows. Without much choice, they quickly set up their small camping tent, making sure it was secure and not going to fly off from the ground, and clambered inside, breathing out.

In the pitch darkness, Kas heard the slumping of Sam’s cloak coming off.

“Need to get out of these damned leathers, or at least loosen them. Help me out, Fuzzy, wouldja?” she murmured.

Kas moved over, helping her undo the straps on her leather. He sniffed, and could smell the sweat pouring off her skin, trapped with all the heat underneath the heavy garments. Sam grunted and unshouldered the armor, stretching by the sound of her “Hh-- hhnn..”

“Thanks,” she said. “D’you need any help too?”

“Nah, I should be fine,” Kas said, undoing the straps of his leathers to let his matted fur breathe.

A few minutes later, they were full of food and Xairestraszas was out of his sling, wandering in circles before coming back to curl up on Kas’s lap. Kas fell back on the pile of clothes they had as a make-shift bed and let out a heavy sigh. A moment later, Sam was nestled in at his side, and Kas’s face started to burn feeling the heat of her bare skin along his side.

“Comfier than the stone,” Sam said.

“Absolutely.”

She draped an arm absentmindedly over his chest, brushing the fur over his solar plexus. “Relax, Fuzzy. A gal needs to stay warm, right?”

Kas cleared his throat. “Absolutely.”

“Mm.” Kas could tell if she was annoyed or amused. “So what happened after Kell was bit?”

Kas blinked, put his arm around her, pet Xairestraszas, and began:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

 

Teeth gnashed and wolves the size of men howled in the dark. The outskirts of Gilneas, which had once been ripe hunting grounds for stags and bears, had suddenly fallen silent from the shouts of a hunter and the cracking of a rifle. The fishermen who lived at the edge of the sea spent more nights indoors, keeping the oil in their lanterns well-stocked, and yet the next week would come without their usual hauls--or any contact, in fact. Parents started to forbid their children from going down into the wilderness to play and explore, and inland relatives of province-folk whimpered with concern for families that stopped sending mail. The land was silent, and still, and waiting with bated breath in terror.

But, before the real terror occurred throughout Gilneas, there’s more to the night that Kell was bitten.

 

<Kell, Naz, and Tanny’s Story, Continued>

 

The rogue and the succubus came back from the beach in a wonderful mood. They had, after all, had a delightfully sensual time out under the stars. And their smiles evaporated the moment they came back, seeing the door hanging open and the hut’s light spilling out.

Tanny got their first, a faster sprinter, and stopped at the doorway in confusion and horror at the scene painted before her. Kell was sprawled out, breath visibly rising and falling though weak and labored, her robe drenched in a pool of her own dark blood. A wound in her shoulder spilled out over the ground, and her arm looked limper than the other. Next to her, a huge lumbering-- thing-- was laying, mouth open exposing curved fangs, eyes vacant and savage and hateful. Its claws reached out for the warlock’s body, and a hole gaped through its chest where its heart would’ve been; burned away in self-defense.

A man with the features of a wolf.

Naz burst in behind Tanny, not stopping in shock, screaming and crashing down at her sister’s side, checking her pulse and heartbeat. The wound pulsed out more crimson down Kell’s arm.

“Tanny, get bandages!” Naz called, tearing the robe open and baring what should’ve been such an exquisite, tender shoulder--

“TANNY!”

Tanlia shook her head, eyes wide still, and rushed through the cabin to the crate that held their medicinal supplies; bandages, herbs, salves. She came back holding a large cloth, kneeling down at Naz’s side. The succubus grimaced and held her hands over the huge wound--a bite, definitely; there were teeth marks down to her breastbone and tears through the muscles--and murmured a few low words. The demon’s hands glowed green, then fel fire crackled over the wound, cauterizing it. Kell’s face twitched, but she wasn’t strong enough to even wince.

Naz brought her hands back, trying to brush off the blood, and looked around. “Bandage, yes--” she mumbled, breathing fast and trying to look calm, “--yes; set it down for now and get water; we need to clean the blood first.”

Tanlia nodded, getting water quickly from the jug they kept near the bed and pouring it into a small bowl. Naz tore a strip off the long bandage, dabbing it in the water then brushing her sister’s shoulder clean. Tanlia stayed quiet, watching, shifting about and propping Kell’s limp head up on her knees--

In the distance, low and forlorn, a wolf howled up at the sky.

The women stopped quickly, looking out the open door. Naz got up, moving across the hut in only a few strides, and shut it tight. The demon turned, meeting Tanny’s gaze grimly. Neither spoke, and Naz strode back, getting back to work.

Once the wound was cleaned, Tanlia propped Kell up further and Naz bandaged the unconscious warlock’s shoulder. Kell’s arm swung, utterly limp, at her side, and Naz looked grimly at it, not wanting to say it wouldn’t ever be usable again but saying just that with her silence. Tanlia then carefully picked Kell up, holding her dearly in her arms, bringing her over to her bed and setting her gingerly down. Naz moved over to their medicinal crate, looking through, and muttered a low, bitter curse.

“What?” Tanlia said, glancing around, eyes still wider than normal.

“There’s no more earthroot,” Naz said, pulling supplies out haphazardly to try and prove herself wrong. She got to the bottom of the crate, paused, then shoved everything back in. “We need earthroot.”

Tanlia gulped and nodded, taking a deep breath. “I can get some.”

“What?” Naz said, turning and looking at her. “No! I can’t-- You can’t go out there now!”

The succubus moved to her girlfriend’s side, fierce and afraid.

“I won’t let you.”

“We don’t have a choice, Naz,” Tanny said, taking a deep breath. “Unless Kell doesn’t need it right away?”

Naz opened her mouth, tried to make a noise, then shut it, strangled.

“Exactly,” Tanny continued, putting her arms around the succubus. “So, one of us needs to go, and one of us has to stay and make sure Kell’s fine during that time. I’m faster, and I’m a better fighter if there’s more of those--  _ things _ \-- around.”

The women looked over at the dead wolf-man. Naz gulped and nodded, hugging Tanlia tight.

“You be careful,” Naz mumbled.

“You know I will be,” Tanlia murmured. “I’ve got you to look forward to once m’back.”

Tanlia kissed her, long and sweet, then released her, grabbing the wolf man by the ankle. “Am I dragging him out?”

Naz stammered, blushing--then blinked and shook her head no. “I can study him better in here.”

“Sounds good, love. I’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Naz said with a weak smile. Tanlia paused and smiled in kind, then opened the door and went out into the dark night.

As Naz dampened a cloth and started to tend to the fever breaking over Kell’s sweat-beaded forehead, Tanlia shifted into darkness and made her way to the forest. Another wolf howled from the direction she was going, and she paused, letting herself slide further and further into the unseen shadows. She wasn’t as good at it as Kas was, but she’d had far less practice. Besides, being proficient and not getting caught was all that mattered right now.

Tanny kept her breathing soft, unheard, and checked the path before her each and every step to make sure she wasn’t trampling over too many leaves. She couldn’t stop the few crackles with each movement, but to any untrained ear, she’d be unnoticeable. That said, she had no idea what she was going up against, or how much they might detect her.

Earthroot wasn’t uncommon, but, as the rogue grimaced to herself, it wasn’t easy to find this time of year outside of the deeper woods where the herbs never completely died. The air had just started its descent into autumn and winter, and the plant-life around their home had retreated away. Thus, the rogue ventured between the trees and off the path down into the sloping woodlands.

The path was littered with foliage, and as Tanny walked she was careful to avoid the majority of it. She stuck close against the large trunks of the forest, the trees towering above and filling in the sky with their branches. It was easier to stick in the shadows this way; the shadows let her blend in against the bark much better than trying to be unseen in the middle of the path.

Tanlia darted tree to tree--pausing as another howl sounded, closer. Her eyes darted quickly throughout the woods, trying in vain to make sense of the blackness surrounding her. The wilderness was so dim it looked like a haze had encircled her, and that she was drifting through fog with each step. The howl echoed, lonesome, and died out, and as Tanny took a careful step forward a second distinct voice howled in kind, long and drawling out. Her eyes narrowed, looking ahead at the huge tree trunks, trying to see around them but unable to. The second howl died, slow and pitiful, and the forest was silent again.

Tanlia became distinctly aware, in the silence, that her nose was congested from the colder wind, and each breath in she could hear the high whine of air rushing through the tight passage. She bit her lip, trying to breathe softer, and finally opened her mouth to breathe without sound. Her throat burned, then dried out in a few breaths, and she grimaced; every bit of her seemed to be exploding out for the wolves to find. Her heart was pounding under the leather armor, and the steady thump of blood filled her ears until she could not tell anymore if the leaves were crunching under her feet. She gulped, and the contractions through her esophagus sounded like the heavy beating of drums.

She let out a breath, moving further and further through the woods.

“AAAHHHOOOOOOOooooo…”

Tanlia stopped in place, every muscle in her body constricting until she’d almost doubled over. The howl was almost on top of her, the sound so  _ human _ but dripping in a low, base growling feralness she knew was something else entirely. It was a shriek; a yell of pain perhaps, or of anger, up into the sky. And then Tanlia saw it.

Drifting by in the woods next to her, close enough for her to reach out and touch, a shadowy figure moved. She could barely see it; she wouldn’t have seen it except she was so close. It was huge, lumbering and stalking along on all fours, barely making a sound, its upper body muscular and broad and  _ human _ \--large and thick and hairy. Its arms were similarly strong, ready to snap its prey in half, and its hands were accentuated among the leaves by hard, sharp claws. Its head was long and angular; a wolf’s head, the snout sniffing forward as beady yellow eyes darted around, looking out into the forest. Its legs were bent horribly backwards; a wolf’s legs, and soft back paws trotted along past her. The figure was dressed in the tattered remains of a man’s clothing.

Tanlia’s legs shook, and she breathed as slow as she could through her mouth, making no sound. Her eyes stayed, wide, watching the wolf-man, then darted around, ear twitching.

A second appeared, stalking around the other side of the tree she was pressed against.

Tanlia bit her lip, pressing tight against the bark and trying to just let them pass. The weapons she’d brought were smooth and heavy; daggers that could take these creatures out easily--but they were once  _ men _ , she thought. And, there were more; there must be more, if these two were around--

Another figure, slender and curving, trotted by, almost brushing her pants. A female, dressed in a robe. Tanlia flattened against the tree, but the female’s hip still brushed along her.

The wolf-woman’s ear twitched. She stopped, sniffing the air, blinking. A low growl erupted from her throat and she turned her snout, sniffing again. Again.

Tanlia licked her lips slowly, arching back against the tough bark, arms trembling, gripping the hilts of her daggers tight.

The wolf-woman snarled and bared her fangs; large, curving, sharp teeth dripping with spit. Her head turned closer to Tanlia, sniffing…

From out of the woods, another wolf came, a male, nudging its snout against her rear and pressing her to move forward. The female trotted forward a step and snapped at him, growling, then turned away, continuing on. The male sniffed around, narrowing red eyes, then shook its head and bounded to catch up to her, nuzzling up at her side.

Tanlia let her breath out slowly, body shaking and sweating hard under the leathers.

More wolves passed by, and Tanlia lost count, just trying to be still and silent. After another minute, they were all gone, ambling around, and she continued quickly on.

Deeper in the woods, she knelt and found what she was looking for. She grabbed the earthroot quickly, filling a whole satchel-bag with the herb, and started back the way she came--

Her foot caught something, and she tripped, crashing loudly into the leaves. She stopped breathing, hearing the noise boom out through the woods. She looked back, wriggling her foot and shaking it free.

A large bear carcass lay where she’d stepped, almost picked completely clean. The former dominant hunter in Gilneas. She’d caught herself on the ribcage.

There was the pounding of feet coming closer, and the mad howling of wolves.

Tanlia got up and sprinted.

Around her, the woods came alive, dancing with shadows and roars, the leaves and branches cracking under the weight of the chase. The wolves came back, jaws snapping in anticipation, and their eyes darted around madly, watching for their prey. Tanlia rushed up the hillside, scrambling against the tumultuous foliage, hearing the sound of thrilled howling where she’d been. Behind her, the heaviness of paws sprinting up was coming.

Tanlia made it to the top of the hillside, glancing around desperately. She was so far away from the house--and even if she got there, there were so many wolves--

She sprinted, clambering up a branch and ascending one of the trees nimbly. She clung to the branches for dear life, breathing hard and trying to silence herself, looking down. Ten seconds passed--then a huge shadow tore past, bounding along with unholy speed. Tanlia gasped and bit her lip hard to shut up, watching as the wolf-man stopped at once, sniffing the air. It turned, growling, sniffing along the floor of the forest, gnashing its cruel teeth, and came to the base of the tree, sniffing--

The creature reared up on its hind legs, standing seven feet tall, scratching its huge claws down the bark and looking up into the branches, snarling.

Tanlia’s body shook on the branch as she watched, hidden away in the leaves, looking at the savage eyes wanting her. Her lip trembled, and she tried in vain to keep her breath from a wild, fearful panting.

The wolf-man hissed and snapped its jaws up, then a branch snapped further on in the forest, and it dropped down to all fours again, bounding off. Tanlia followed it quickly, seeing the dim moonlight outlining an unfortunate, frightened deer, trying to escape but quickly and viciously caught by the fangs and claws of the predator.

Tanlia dropped quickly back to the forest floor and sprinted home.

Naz met her as she came in, smiling brightly--then concerned as Tanlia burst into shivers. The succubus held her tight, soothing her and listening to the ordeal, and soon enough had made medicine for Kell, showing Tanlia how to administer it. As Tanlia did, Naz went outside, making a circle around the home with foul-smelling potions, warding off any new wolves that might come by. Her eyes scanned the darkness, better suited to see in it, but found nothing at all but the silence and emptiness of the forest.

 

Kas stopped, listening to the wind howl outside. Sam’s body, heated up from their closeness, had a fine layer of sweat along each inch of skin that smelled divine to his worgen nose. Xairestraszas yawned and fell asleep, nuzzling in against the worgen’s belly.

Sam blinked, then pouted. “That’s it?”

“For tonight. We need sleep.”

“Fine, fine,” the rogue mumbled, nuzzling in closer. Kas bit his cheek, pushing back a shiver of delight, and draped his arm along her form tighter, pressing thoughts away.

They said nothing more, unaware of each other’s thoughts, and tried to sleep. Hard as it was, they finally managed it.


	13. Calm before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kas and Sam experience a setback, and Kas tells her of a more relaxing encounter in Gilneas before it all goes to hell.

Kas awoke with the sky still dark around him. The tent was dim, and he could barely make out the slumbering forms of his companions nestled against him. He patted them each, careful not to wake them, and laid his head back, relaxing and letting himself drift about from thought to thought. The wind outside whistled and rushed against their tent, and despite the air’s chill Kas found himself oddly soothed by the whole situation. No one had disturbed them overnight; no one had hindered their journey. Their only real foe was the climate, and even then it was manageable. And then Sam awoke too.

The human’s body jolted at Kas’s side and her eyes darted open. Sam gasped and suddenly a heavy stream of panting filled the tent, high pitched and delirious. Xairestraszas squawked in his sleep and started to wake—Kas carefully pulled the whelpling off of him to be tucked snugly between their bed-cloak and the blanket-cloak—and held Sam closer. The rogue woman uttered a fearful, strangled yelp and struggled against him, punching down against his broad chest.

“Sam—” Kas said, then the breath was knocked away and he coughed. The human thrashed, whimpering, and Kas clutched her closer. “ _ SAM. _ It’s me. Easy, gal.”

Samanatha Crow paused, her arm dug in at his side trying to push, and she relaxed from her wish to escape, curling tight against him and bursting into shivers. Her breathing became fast and jagged, and had she not buried her dry face against him Kas would’ve thought she was crying. Nonetheless, he held her close, furry worgen arms encompassing her.

“Easy there, love.. Easy..”

Sam let out a muffled moan into his chest, and the hand that had punched him pressed over his heart, gripping the fur and shaking. Kas hugged her, shushing her and petting her warm, bare back in long strokes, nuzzling his snout down against her hair.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, deep and serene. “You’re all right…”

Shaking still controlled her spine, but Sam slowed her breaths as best she could, gasping in but forcing herself to let it out slower. Her jaw chattered and Kas heard her teeth and, just to soothe her, not knowing what else he could do, gently kissed the top of her head.

“You’re okay, Sam,” he murmured again.

He laid there caressing the trembling woman and time ebbed away. The sunlight peeked timid eyes over the horizon, and the tent lit up a hesitant pink. Her form became more visible, the blanket-cloak half kicked off, her bare chest pressing along his. Kas shut his eyes, petting her, and she settled finally.

“Good morning,” Kas said softly, continuing to pamper her. Sam relaxed her grip on his fur, uncovering her head from him and looking up at his muzzle.

“Morning,” she muttered hoarsely.

Kas reached over to the sack, fishing through it and getting their skin of water, handing it over. Sam took it, grip still shivering, and guzzled down a few large sips. Kas kept his eyes shut. She corked it again and set it down.

“You can open your eyes,” she mumbled.

Kas did, and his red gaze met her brown one. Her rich, chocolate eyes were exhausted, and she snuggled closer along his warm fur. He moved the arm that had gotten water back around her, protective and reassuring.

“Normally I’d hit you very hard for smooching my hair,” she said to herself. “If we haven’t done anything.”

“Normally you wouldn’t have a nightmare curled against someone you hadn’t slept with, I imagine?” Kas replied, voice deep and pleasant for her. She curled herself more, as if she were trying to go into a ball against him.

“’s’right,” Sam muttered, sighing.

“Want to talk about it?”

Sam glanced up again at him. He was still gazing intently into her eyes. She searched the wolf’s red gaze, then leaned up, kissing his jaw once and snuggling back along him.

“No.”

Kas gulped, taking a long, controlled breath. “Okay. Do you want breakfast yet?”

Sam shook her head as much as she could against him, and shut her eyes. “Just want to lay here right now. We don’t have to go yet.”

Kas nodded and kept his paw moving over her, petting along her back and side in a sweet, slow rhythm. They said nothing else, and the sun moved in, cracking the sky with light again and pulling the tent into the new day with the rest of the world. Xairestraszas woke, snapping his jaws open and shut with a set of short yawns, and perked his long head up from the blanket, wondering where he was. Kas moved an arm away from his rogue companion and patted the whelpling’s head, and Xairestraszas squawked delightedly and flopped his gangly body over to Kas’s other side, trying to clamber over him and stretching.

Sam opened her eyes and took a deep breath. “Now food, and let’s get going.”

Kas nodded and grunted, carefully sitting up and getting their travel-sack. He fished food out, handing some over to Sam—pausing and shutting his eyes quickly, realizing the blankets had come down rather far. He’d seen only a flash of tender skin, but it played sweet chaos over his mind. She sat up, not caring and saying nothing about his awkward blush, pressing close at his arm and taking her food, mumbling thanks. Kas nodded, turning his face away, and got the loudly-clamoring Xairestraszas his food as well. The party ate, drank, and dressed, packing up their tent as they stepped back out into the Northrend gales.

The gallows caught the rising sun, throwing a merciless shadow over their makeshift camp. Kas glanced up with squinting eyes at the wooden post, only to grimace; the sun captured in the loop of rope. A grim omen for a rogue to see, first thing in the day.

Samantha Crow joined him, and Xairestraszas pranced out, looking at the scenery around. Kas quickly knelt down, collecting the dragon up into his arms, and after much protesting from the energetic babe finally stuffed him into the shoulder-sling. The red whelpling groaned then thumped its head hard against Kas’s chest in dissatisfaction, but gave in and settled down. The rogues tore down their tent from its poles, put it away in the sack, and walked back to the main road.

Sam stretched, basking in the morning glow, arms up above her head reaching for the sky. “Hh—hm. How’d you sleep, Fuzzy?”

Kas lumbered along, his huge worgen gait not quite made for a constant bipedal trot. His arms swung heavily by his side, and his snout bobbed up and down. He looked over at her, blinking, stopping next to her.

“Slept fine, I suppose. No dreams I remember.”

Samantha nodded, looking down the road. Far, far ahead, they heard the rush of water.

“There’s a bridge out to sea,” she said. “It’ll help us cross into Dragonblight.”

Kas nodded, and they started off down the road towards their destination.

They made good time, but the echoing water was further off than they’d anticipated. The sound rolled over the beautiful white hills and the cliffside far to their left, which Samantha said was Wintersgrasp. Kas looked on, and Xairestraszas peeked out too. The cliffside rose up high, jagged and steep without any real paths up, and further off behind it another cliffside rose, dark and twisting into the clouds. Kas asked about it, and Sam mentioned darkly that it was Icecrown and changed the conversation.

They walked a few hours, speaking of this and that. Samantha had a lot of knowledge of the area, and pointed out the various herbs and veins of ore that they saw on the roadside. Occasionally, she made mention of a person, and Kas learned that there were gnomes living somewhere to their northwest at an air base, and that a group of dragons had situated themselves much further northwest than that, though they had gone home by now. There was also, Sam said with a scoffing chuckle, a group of idiotic, obsessive druids that would come at you viciously if you slaughtered  _ any _ animal. Naturally, Sam had offered them venison from the surrounding deer, and smacked them around so that they didn’t disturb the farmers who depended on animal products any longer.

They stopped and ate lunch. They found a wooden fence, sitting together and enjoying the warmth of the sun, which was brighter than it had been yesterday. Sam hummed to herself, and pointed out a set of walls in the distance towards the Wintergrasp cliffs. They looked like a city.

“It  _ was _ a city,” she said, eating. “An undead stronghold. There were a few raids on it, and it’s deserted now.”

“Were you part of those raids?” Kas inquired.

She shrugged. “Might’ve been.”

After eating, they packed and continued onwards. Xairestraszas wriggled about and Kas relented, bringing him carefully out and holding onto him. The whelpling stretched his growing wings and flapped hard, making Kas panic and hold him tighter, but the whelpling settled down, bounding up Kas’s arm to his shoulder and curling around the back of his neck with a happy squawk. Another hour passed, and Xairestraszas came down, shivering and flopping into the warm sling again, purring.

The sun just started to dip along the horizon when they came to the bridge. Sam’s face fell, and despair took her features, followed by a swift, vicious rage.

“Mother— _ FUCKER! _ ”

The water roared in their ears. The bridge to Dragonblight, which crossed the dangerous, rushing river from Wintersgrasp out to the Great Sea, had collapsed. There was no way across.

Sam spat and swore and found a rock to kick, punting it about with evil intentions and finally picking it up, hurling it out into the river. It splashed and was quickly suckled out to the relentless ocean. She let out a frustrated yell at the water and finally settled, hanging her head with her hand on her hips. Kas watched quietly.

“I take it there’s no other way across?” he finally asked once she’d calmed down. She shook her head, looking again at the water and taking a deep breath in. Kas cleared his throat. “Is there any way we could fell a tree and use that to cross?”

“No,” Sam said bitterly, looking at the river. “It’s too treacherous. We’ll have to go the  _ long _ way.”

Kas grimaced and steeled himself for the bad news. “What’s the ‘ _ long _ ’ way?”

“Traipsing over half the fucking continent is the  _ long _ way,” Sam growled, turning herself to look down the road they’d come from then back at the river. “Fucking— _ FUCK! _ ”

She heaved out a sigh and rubbed her face. Kas set down the heavy sack slung over his shoulder and stretched.

“All right,” he said, calm.

Sam looked at him, seething. “Does  _ nothing _ phase you?”

Kas shrugged. “Can’t be helped, Sam. Can’t be helped.”

Sam watched him a long, quiet moment, then looked over the barren land again. Beyond the wide river, Kas could make out a snowy hillside, curving up into a white abyss. Tall fir trees obscured more of a view, and it didn’t matter anyway because now it was unreachable. Sam moved over beside him, patting his shoulder.

“Tent,” she said listlessly. “Sun’s going down and it’ll get frigid soon. Let’s get the tent set up for the night.”

Kas nodded, and the two set up their camp next to a set of lonely trees near the river. The ocean winds blew steadily colder, and as they finally got into shelter Sam was unable to stop a bad shiver. Kas pulled her into a fluffy hug, wordless, and she curled against him until she warmed up. Xairestraszas cooed between them, nuzzling in against them both in his sling, thinking it was for him.

They ate, the sun went down, and the rogues got out of their leathers again and lied down. Sam breathed softer, basking in the worgen’s heat, and for half an hour they stayed put, thinking their own thoughts and listening to Xairestraszas’s muffled growls trying to tear the stuffed cow apart. Blessedly, it was enchanted, and was surely just smiling its benign smile.

Just as they were starting to fall asleep, Sam yawned and nuzzled her face against Kas’s fur and mumbled: “Story?”

Kas yawned too and blinked and hummed, thinking about what would be lighter fare for a story tonight, then began:

 

<The Story of Gilneas, Continued>

 

    The city kept its cool, barely hearing the feral howls in the surrounding hills. The townsfolk along the farms at the city’s edge were perturbed, but none had reason to initially complain. The shoreline villages, however, and the few settlements up in the highlands near the Wall separating the Gilnean peninsula from the rest of Lordaeron were silent and fearful. Doors locked during the nights, and candles were blown out quickly. The sound of growling permeated the darkness, and the soft padding of feet against the dirt could be heard at midnight when the moon was full in the sky. Each day, they would come out and try to find tracks, but there were so many overlapping that trying to discern a particular set was nigh impossible.

    While Kelleniana twitched in dreamless slumber, her brow pouring with sweat and her housemates doing all they could to help her, life went on in the city.

 

<Henry and Royyan’s Story>

 

    The guard met the priest for dinner, and the night planned out was devoted entirely to celebration. Royyan polished his armor and tried to rub out the impressive array of scratches it’d sustained. He wore his least tattered cloak, and with sword and shield strapped to his person, he found himself feeling both overdressed and underdressed in Henry’s presence. The priest had on a white robe, simple enough in its design but with more and more intricate details as Royyan studied it. His neckline plunged with a bold silver lining, and the dark-skinned priest striking black undershirt on accentuating it. A brown leather belt, faded to some quiet shade of grey, provided a splash of color, but even that added to the ensemble of the man.

    Perhaps, Royyan dared to think, it was the man himself being marveled and not the attire.

    Henry smiled, meeting Royyan at the inn’s doorway and looking over the warrior’s plate armor. Royyan blushed lightly, far easier to detect on his peachy skin, and wished his auburn hair was longer to cover his face with bangs. Henry was wearing the necklace Royyan had gifted him before Northrend.

    “You’re looking impressive,” the priest said, meeting the guard’s gaze again and doubling down on the charming smile. Royyan cleared his throat, grinning.

    “Me? It’s just my set of armor.”

    “It’s well-polished.”

    “Well, I do have to clean it, at least every so often,” Royyan grinned, regretting the idiotic words immediately. There were so many better ways to handle such a conversation—

    “Well, it looks very nice on you,” Henry said, smiling up at him. Royyan gritted his teeth behind his smile, trying to keep his face from burning and failing. He mumbled a thanks and opened the inn door, holding it for the priest. Henry bowed his head politely and went in, and the deeply red-faced guard followed.

    Royyan had procured them a table earlier that day, reserving it for no small sum. The inn was popular and crowded, and a perky young lass met them, escorting them through the hubbub and the roaring crowd up the stairs and against the back wall, the quietest seat that’d been available. Royyan pulled out the chair for his company, and Henry paused a moment before sitting with a small, knowing hum. Royyan sat opposite him, and the lass giggled at the two of them when they weren’t paying attention. They ordered their meals, and she left, leaving them to wait and sit and chat in the relative solitude.

    Since Royyan was scared out of his mind, it was Henry who finally started with a soft laugh and a look around.

    “I don’t think I’ve ever been in here. Thank you for taking me.”

    “You’re welcome!” the guard replied, then hastened to slow himself down. “It’s a good spot. I don’t come here often, but when it’s affordable it’s always proved to be a good meal and fun company, if somewhat rowdy.”

    At that moment, as if on cue, something triggered the crowd below and a jolly roar leapt through the building.

    Henry laughed again. “I can hear that, yes.”

    Royyan watched him a moment, then frowned. “You haven’t been in here...”

    Henry glanced back at him. “Yeah?”

    “I mean—I would’ve thought you wouldn’t’ve frequented too many places outside of the monastery?”

    Henry blinked then grinned. “I  _ did _ have a life before my parents deposited me there, you know. We’re also not prisoners; the abbot let us go out if we had proved to be trustworthy. Which, yes, I was!”

    Royyan quickly held up his hands, grinning back. “Never said you weren’t!”

    Henry chuckled. “Good!”

    They lapsed into silence, watching each other.

    Royyan cleared his throat again. “So—uh—”

    “Hm?”

    The warrior blinked then thought, trying to fill it the gaps of something to say.

    “It’s been eventful, around here.”

    “Yeah!” Henry leaned in. “I heard a little from Kanhya and a little more from your folks but nothing about what actually happened or what you did…”

    Royyan stammered a moment, then laughed, nervous. “Well, you say it like that and I feel like I’m a villain! ‘What I did…’”

    Henry held his gaze, a smirk playing at his mouth watching the guardsman squirm. “I don’t know—you’d make a good villain, y’know.”

    Royyan blinked, squirming more in his chair. “ _ Me?  _ I’d like to think I’ve got a much more pleasant mindset than some rogue!”

    Henry leaned back, blinking innocently. “Well, every book I’ve read the villain is dashing. You could be very sly and a very good actor, my friend, and be pulling the wool over my eyes about being so cute and caring.”

    Royyan blushed deep red and opened his mouth, then shut it, having been called a host of tender things. Henry laughed, rich and sweet.

    “On second thought, I don’t think it’s an act…”

    “Okay, okay! I’d be a good villain, maybe--” Royyan said, voice trailing off into oblivion. Henry watched him through every second, smirking wider and wider. Royyan met his gaze, ears slowly flattening to his head. “Yes?”

    “Nothing~” Henry murmured, then shook his head and sobered. “What  _ did _ happen here, Roy?”

    Royyan sat up in his chair, taking a breath and growing serious as well. “I don’t know all the specifics,” he said softly, “but I gathered that Biedt pissed Kanhya off or threatened her or something that made her lash out.”

    Henry grimaced. “Of course he would. If he’s still around I’ll use his head as a ball to kick.”

    “He’s not still around,” Royyan replied, lower still. “I came in to see Kanhya out of control—torching  _ everything _ . Biedt most especially. Hell, Henry: the  _ stones _ were melted.”

    Henry nodded softly, leaning in, resting his elbows on the table and his mouth against his interlaced fingers. Royyan paused for him to say something, but the priest did not share whatever he was thinking.

    “Anyhow—I got her out of there, and she’s living in my home since, as you know. Ellanora and Gabrielle are thrilled.”

    Henry smiled lightly. “Of course your sisters would be thrilled to have another young lady in the house, instead of a stuffy older brother.”

    “Oh, so I’m stuffy?” Royyan pouted, crossing his arms with a clank.

    Henry chuckled. “Hush, you. Go on, please.”

    Royyan sat up again, and continued: the guard captain had sent assassins out after them, and Roy had evaded them, finding Kaskaeld and Tanlia and Kelleniana eventually. Some of the guards after him had mentioned them, and Roy picked up the trail. The three had been surprised to see him but realized soon enough he was a man of his word, not sent to harm them, and let him help their cause. They had taken on Bladesman’s Tower, killed the guard captain, and King Genn had promoted Royyan from a guard barely done with training to a Royal Guardsman, instructed with helping keep the city safe without needing to order to anyone except other Royal Guardsmen. It was a high honor, to be sure.

    Henry smiled tenderly. “Congratulations.”

    Royyan blushed and waved a hand at him, not one for bragging beyond joking. Their meals came, and they dug in, savoring the richness of the cooking. The meats were succulent and dripping with juices, dashed in spices, and cooked to a firm bite that all at once melted the flavor into their mouths. Vegetables, steaming and drizzled in an unknown but delightful sauce, accompanied, as well as warm baked bread.

    They didn’t speak much through the meal, just reveling in the taste and the company. Henry especially wolfed it down, trying to slow himself, looking like a man who’d been shipwrecked for months with only a cat’s food to eat. The priest practically cried tasting it all, Roy thought.

    They finished, rested blissfully, and Roy paid for it all and got up. Henry got up as well—and paused, seeing the guard holding an arm out for him. Henry moved over, slowly taking his arm, nuzzling close onto it after a long moment. Royyan smiled, crisp and attentive, just as if he were walking with Princess Tess. They went downstairs, and the inn stopped and stared after them. None dared say a word; he was a Royal Guardsman after all.

    The night air was pleasantly cold compared to the heated inn. They walked the streets slowly, letting the light from the lanterns drift over them, listening to the clacking of their boots on the cobblestones. The lapping water of the canals sighed in their ears, and Henry held Royyan’s arm tighter. Royyan hummed, then a thought poked into his mind.

    “Henry?”

    “Mm?..”

    “I’ve heard dark tales, but I suppose I should ask you yourself. Northrend?”

    The priest tensed. “What of it?”

    Royyan held his arm gentle and close. “I don’t want to dig up bad memories. Was there anything about it, though, worth sharing?”

    Henry looked at his companion, seeing the caring gaze, and shook his head slightly. Nothing worth sharing. Royyan smile soft, reassuring, and they walked on.

    Far and away in the rocky wastes of the coast, a mournful creature howled. It sounded like a wolf, yet the voice was lower and the end drawled upwards into an almost human yelling.

    Henry stopped walking, hugging onto Roy’s arm and squeezing it hard.

    Royyan stopped too, frowning first at the sound and then at his companion. Henry was paler and shivering, and Royyan moved around, wrapping him up in a hug. “Easy,” the warrior murmured, petting along his back. The priest nonetheless shivered, hiding his face against Roy’s shoulder.

    “There’ve been wolves howling outside the city,” Roy murmured. “Just wolves; they’re easy enough to cull. Nothing to worry about, my dear..”

    Henry shook his head vehemently, trembling and mumbling something. Roy frowned, petting him, and without prompting Henry hissed “plenty to worry about.” Roy frowned further, not understanding, and the priest’s shudders slowly subsided. Roy thought to himself that there were wolves in Northrend, and decided against pursuing such a topic. He’d ask Yaranh instead the next time he saw the man. Warrior to warrior—and, being Henry’s brother, he was close personally as well as professionally.

    Royyan walked the younger Barastos brother home. Yaranh answered the door, smiling, and Roy was invited in. They talked over little nothings; pleasantries and the like, and Roy left with the same questions burning in his breast. They were, however, overshadowed by the embrace Henry gave him before he walked out into the night—and since nothing was better than that, those questions could surely wait. It’d all be fine.

 

Kas paused there. Xairestraszas was snoozing and Sam was almost there. She fought it, trying to murmur and ask about it, but Kas nuzzled her head and purred soft nothings for her to sleep. The human couldn’t fight it, snuggling tight against his furry form, and was out like a light. Kas hummed to himself and shut his own eyes, and soon he was drifting away too.


End file.
